Page 41 of Scarlet Chains
The word drips with something dark and bitter. I study his profile— the sharp line of his jaw, the tension radiating from his shoulders. There’s a story here, one written in blood and loss, and I’m only seeing fragments.
“Must be overwhelming,” Simpson continues, apparently determined to fill every silence. “Finding your son after all this time. I imagine there’s quite a bit to figure out.”
“You could say that.” Osip’s voice is granite, offering nothing.
I want to scream at Simpson to shut up, to stop poking at wounds that are clearly still bleeding. But maybe his obliviousness is mercy— it gives me time to collect myself, to prepare for whatever comes next.
Slava shifts in my arms, his fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. The gesture nearly breaks me. This innocent child has no idea his world is about to change again. No idea that the man driving this car is both his salvation and his curse.
“Here we are,” Simpson announces as we pull into a circular driveway. The sign above the entrance readsBeacon Hill Orphanagein uniform letters.
My stomach drops. This is really happening.
Simpson climbs out first, holding the door open for me with smooth courtesy. Osip is already standing beside the car. Every line of his body speaks of violence held in check, but when his eyes land on Slava, something shifts. Softens.
I unbuckle the seatbelt and shift Slava in my arms. He clings to me immediately, his head nestling into my shoulder like he belongs there. The trust in that simple gesture twists something deep in my chest.
“It’s clear he loves you.” Osip’s voice comes from right beside me, closer than I expected. The heat of his body sends shivers racing down my spine, and when I look up, he’s studying me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
I can’t decide if I want to hate him or tear his clothes off. Both emotions war inside me, leaving me breathless and confused.
I can’t meet his gaze. Won’t give him that power over me. Not again.
“He’s just scared,” I whisper, my voice husky. “He doesn’t understand what’s happening.”
“Neither do you.”
It’s not a question. Osip sees too much, knows too much. He always has.
We walk up the stairs together, our footsteps echoing in the crisp air. Slava’s weight in my arms feels heavier with each step, like I’m carrying something precious and fragile. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking him toward another upheaval in his fragile little life.
The modern brick building rises before us, clean lines and large windows. Welcoming in theory, but institutional in reality. Like everything else in this situation.
I don’t know if I can let him go.
The realization shakes me.
Osip stops walking. When I glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but there’s something burning in his eyes. Something that looks almost like understanding.
Does he know what I’m thinking? If he does, what does this mean for us?
As we approach the heavy glass doors, I realize that nothing about this situation is going to be simple.
Nothing ever is, when it comes to Osip Sidorov.
Chapter Seventeen
Osip
The sounds of the orphanage seem to fade into the background as we head through the foyer; children’s voices, doors opening and closing, the bustle of a building filled with life.
Ilona hasn’t spoken since we arrived. She cradles Slava against her chest, her energy vibrating with an agitation so heavy I can taste it. Every breath she takes seems to pull the oxygen from my lungs, and she still won’t look at me. Only the electric charge between us tells me she’s acutely aware of my presence, my every movement.
Concentrate, dolboyob.
Your son needs you focused.
But even as I try to push it down, I feel the heat radiating from her body as we climb the stairs. The way her pulse flutters at her throat. The careful distance she maintains that somehow makes the space between us hum like a live thing.
