Page 26 of Scarlet Chains
I push the thoughts away violently, but they leave a residue of sadness that’s hard to shake. My throat tightens, and I have to blink several times to clear my vision. I think about the baby growing inside me, about whether I’ll even make it past the critical twelve-week mark. The statistics flash through my mind— all the things that can go wrong, all the ways this tiny hope inside me might disappear.
The uncertainty tightens around my heart, making it hard to draw breath.
Slava must sense my shift in mood because he stops playing and crawls back to me, settling quietly on the rug with his teddy bear pressed against his chest. His gray eyes— so different from Elena’s ice blue and Leonid’s brown— study my face with an intensity that seems too mature for his age.
It’s like he understands the thoughts that haunt me, like he recognizes the sadness that threatens to pull me under. There’s something in his gaze that reminds me of—
No. I’m being ridiculous. Pregnancy hormones and maternal instincts, nothing more.
“You’re a special little boy, aren’t you?” I whisper, reaching out to smooth his hair.
He leans into my touch, and something in my chest shifts and settles. Whatever happens with my own pregnancy, whatever complicated feelings I have about the father, whatever darkness lurks in my future— this little boy needs someone to see him, to love him, to be present with him in a way his parents clearly aren’t.
I already love him. The realization should scare me, but instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“We’ll definitely be more than fine for two weeks,” I tell him softly, and for the first time since taking this job, I truly believe it.
Slava responds by crawling into my lap, snuggling against me with complete trust. His small body fits perfectly in my arms, and my heart melts all over again. Whatever else happens, I’ll make sure this little boy knows what it feels like to be loved.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper against the top of his head, breathing in that sweet baby scent. “It’s all going to be okay.”
“Ma-ma…” his tiny voice comes from against my chest, muffled but clear.
“No, baby. I-lo…” For some reason, I find myself brushing away a stray tear that leaked from the corner of my eye.
Ugh.
Stupid pregnancy hormones.
But as I hold this beautiful, abandoned little boy, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe we need each other more than either of us knows.
Chapter Ten
Osip
The nightmare claws its way up from the depths of my subconscious like a fucking parasite.
Slava’s face. That little mouth forming the word “Papa” through the rain-streaked window of the Land Rover. But this time, the car doesn’t drive away— it explodes in a ball of fire that turns my son’s innocent eyes into charcoal. I’m running toward the wreckage, my legs moving through cement, my lungs burning as I scream his name into the void.
Then the scene shifts. Ilona is on a plane, her blue eyes wide with terror as Stanley slides into the seat beside her. His smile is all teeth and malice as he strokes her honey-blonde hair with one hand while the other grips a knife that gleams like pure evil. She’s so trusting, so fucking naive, leaning into his touch like he’s her savior instead of her executioner.
I try to scream her name, to warn her, but no sound comes from my throat. The blade moves closer to her neck, and I watch helplessly as crimson spreads across her pale skin.
“ILONA!”
The word tears from me as I jolt awake, my body convulsing like I’ve been electrocuted. Sweat coats my skin in a slick layer of fear and rage, soaking through the Egyptian cotton sheets I paid a fortune for. My heart thunders so hard I wonder if this is what a cardiac arrest feels like.
The darkness of my bedroom feels suffocating, pressing down on me like a weight. The digital clock on my nightstand glows 3:47 a.m. in accusatory red numbers. Another sleepless night in what’s becoming an endless parade of them.
Stanley’s words echo in my skull:I have eyes on your little bird, Osip.
I push myself upright, muscles screaming in protest. My body feels like I’ve been beaten with a fucking baseball bat, every joint stiff with tension I can’t release. The nightmares are getting worse— more vivid, more detailed, more fucking real. Every night it’s the same horror show: Slava disappearing, Ilona bleeding, and me powerless to save either of them.
I stumble to the bathroom, leaning over the basin and splashing cold water on my face. Stubble grazes my fingertips from a beard that’s grown scraggly with neglect. I look like a fucking vagrant.
I reach for the medicine cabinet with shaking hands, fingers closing around the bottle of sedatives. Two pills tumble into my palm— small white circles that promise oblivion but deliver nothing but more nightmares. I swallow them, chasing the bitter taste with tap water that does nothing to wash away the taste of failure.
But the pills don’t touch the rage. Nothing touches the rage anymore.
