Page 43 of Scarlet Chains
Blyad.
Watching them feels like taking a bullet to the gut. This woman has given my son more love in two weeks than I’ve managed in his entire life. She’s been his constant when I was fucking around with God knows what. My feelings? My self-pity?
Fucking pizda.
Wasting time like a pussy.
I move closer, my expensive shoes silent on the thin carpet. Ilona’s entire body goes tense, but I ignore it. I crouch down beside the cot, bringing myself to Slava’s level, close enough that my shoulder almost touches Ilona’s leg.
The air between us is electric, charged with everything we’re not saying. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, can sense her hyperawareness of my proximity. But right now, none of that matters. Right now, there’s only my son, looking up at me with eyes that hold trust I haven’t earned.
“Pa-pa,” Slava babbles, his tiny hand reaching toward me.
I suck in a breath that physically hurts. My heart doesn’t just skip— it fucking shatters. This little boy, who barely knows me, who has every reason to be afraid of me, is calling me Papa. The same word I saw him mouth when I watched the Vorobevs’car drive away with him, when I thought I might never see him again.
He looks at Ilona next, his expression brightening. “I-lo.”
Papa and Ilo.
His whole world, contained in two simple sounds.
For one perfect, impossible moment, we’re like a family. The three of us, connected by this tiny person who doesn’t understand the complications of the adult world. He doesn’t know that his adoptive parents died in a plane crash. Doesn’t know that Ilona and I have a history painted in shades of passion and betrayal. Doesn’t know that in any other circumstances, we’d be enemies.
All he knows is that we’re here, and he feels safe.
The moment stretches, fragile as morning frost. I reach out and touch his tiny hand with one finger. His grip is surprisingly strong as he wraps his fist around it. In this sterile room, surrounded by the institutional sounds of an orphanage, we create our own small bubble of peace.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take special care of him until the paperwork is sorted.” Simpson’s voice feels like a violation. “He’ll be just fine. You have my word.”
The spell breaks. Reality crashes back in— harsh lights, the smell of Clorox, the knowledge that I’m about to walk away from my son again.
I lean closer to Slava, my voice dropping low. “I’ll be back for you, Son. I promise. Sooner than you think.”
The words are a vow, carved from desperation and sealed with my blood. I will move heaven and earth to get him out of this place. I will burn down anyone who tries to keep us apart.
I sense Ilona’s eyes on me, and when I glance up, she’s looking at me with something that isn’t hatred for the first time since I found her at the Vorobev house. There’s surprise there, and something else— something that looks almost like hope.
It lasts only a second before she looks away, but it’s enough. For the first time, she’s not looking at me like some kind of monster.
Standing, I place my hand on Simpson’s shoulder. The gesture is friendly, but there’s steel underneath it.
“Thank you for calling me so quickly,” I tell him. “I will not let him be taken from me again.”
He nods, understanding the weight behind those simple words.
As we prepare to leave, Slava lets out a small cry. Not distressed, just awareness that his people are moving away.
“I-lo!”
Ilona freezes, her whole body going rigid with the effort not to turn back. I can see her hands shaking at her sides.
I want to touch her, to offer some kind of comfort, but I know she wouldn’t accept it. Not from me. Not yet.
Instead, I step closer to her, close enough that she can feel my presence without me actually touching her.
“It’s best to keep walking,” Simpson says gently. “If you delay your departure, it will just confuse him more.”
“I-lo!” Slava’s voice grows more strident. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach out, and it tears at my heart.
