Page 40 of Scarlet Chains
My pulse hammers against my throat as I drink in the sight of him— the way his expensive suit molds to his powerful frame, the controlled violence in his stance, the promise of rough hands and whispered threats that used to make me come undone. Even now, pregnant with his child and hating everything he represents, I want him with a ferocity that terrifies me.
I hesitate, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of confusion and need. What am I supposed to do? Every instinct screams at me to run, but Slava stirs in my arms, his tiny fist clutching my blouse like I’m his anchor in a storm. He buries his head against my chest, and my heart breaks.
I can’t just hand him over and never see him again. I won’t.
“Alright,” I whisper, the word scraping my throat raw. “Let me get his things, and—”
“He doesn’t need anything from this place,” Osip snaps, glancing around as if we’re standing in the gates of hell itself.
“It’s alright, dear. We’re well-equipped to accommodate infants.” Simpson smiles reassuringly while Osip stalks away, and I follow on shaky legs. The four of us walk to the bottom of the stairs where a black Range Rover sits waiting.
Osip slides behind the wheel, his movements fluid and controlled, while Simpson claims the passenger seat. I open the rear door and immediately notice the scent— expensive leather mixed with something distinctly masculine that makes my pulse quicken. Cedar and smoke, Osip’s aftershave still lingering.
“There’s no baby seat,” I say, frowning.
“Good point,” says Simpson. “Legally, I can’t permit—”
“She can hold him,” Osip says, then glances at me. “Buckle yourself in.”
“Mr. Sidorov, I—”
“I said she can hold him,” Osip snarls, his lips curling up in a gesture that looks alarmingly like a wolf baring its teeth. Simpson sinks into his seat as if wishing his could disappear.
I settle into the back seat with Slava, the leather creaking softly under my weight. The interior is pristine, dark surfaces and chrome accents, no sign of personality. Cold. The baby’s tiny hand reaches for me instinctively, his fingers wrapping around mine. I hold him close, memorizing the weight of his small body, the sweet scent of his hair.
The car feels heavy with unspoken words and violent undercurrents. Every breath tastes like tension.
As we drive through the city streets, I’m barely holding back tears. My emotions threaten to overwhelm me completely. My mind is a clusterfuck of confusion. I can’t imagine never seeing Slava again, never hearing his babbling attempts to say my name or feeling him fall asleep in my arms. In such a short time, he’s become so important to me— hope and joy and innocence in a world that’s tried to destroy all three.
The most twisted irony? I had no idea he was Osip’s son.
But something about this whole situation feels wrong, like puzzle pieces forced together when they don’t quite fit. If Osip is Slava’s biological father, why was the boy given up for adoption? Where has Osip been all this time? Why wasn’t he in Slava’s life before this tragedy struck?
And why did he want a surrogate when he already had a child?
The questions multiply, each one more disturbing than the last. Then my mind trips over the photograph I found in his room in Budapest— the radiant young woman with her hand resting on her swollen belly. Galina. The woman he said had died.
The realization crashes into me.
Slava is the baby she was carrying in that photo.
Holy shit!
My breath catches as the pieces slam together. Galina must have been Slava’s mother. She died, and somehow Slava ended up in the system. But how? Why? Why didn’t Osip take his own son?
“Everything alright back there?” Simpson’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s twisted in his seat, studying me with professional concern.
I force a smile that feels brittle. “Fine. Just… processing.”
Osip’s eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, and the contact burns. For a heartbeat, something raw and unguarded flickers across his features— vulnerability so brief I might have imagined it. Then his mask slides back into place, and he’s the dangerous stranger again.
“Slava’s lucky to have someone who cares about him,” Simpson continues, oblivious to the tension between the front and back seats. “It’s clear you’re fond of him.”
“He’s special,” I murmur, stroking Slava’s soft hair. The baby makes a contented sound, nuzzling deeper into my arms.
“Clearly runs in the family,” Simpson says with a chuckle, glancing at Osip. “Amazing how genetics work, isn’t it? The resemblance is unmistakable, now that I see the two of you so close together.”
Osip’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Amazing.”
