by Lana Sky
I simper. “What can I say? It’s in my blood—” I break off as I spot a small figure watching us from the doorway, her arms crossed.
“There is a pool,” she says carefully. Her tiny frown and stern gaze take on a harder edge, as if she’s fighting to seem as disinterested as possible.
“Oh, that’s right,” I say, recalling the list Vadim and I had poured over. “You like to swim. Right?”
Magda says nothing, turning her attention to Vadim, who cautiously meets her gaze. It’s like something unspoken passes between them, and they both promptly turn away, their jaws clenched.
“Never mind,” Magda says, shrugging. “It’s too cold to swim, anyway—”
“It’s heated,” Vadim says. He skirts the counter and advances toward her. “You can swim whenever you’d like. As long as I, Tiffany, or another adult is present.”
Magda’s lips twitch, but she forces a curt nod. “Okay.”
“And there are acres of property,” Vadim adds, ushering her into the foyer. I follow them at a distance, but close enough to hear him add, “We’re having a playground built there—” he points to a section of budding construction visible through the row of windows in the living room. “And there is a boathouse if you’re interested in going onto the water. And a stable…”
I’m so distracted watching them. I barely notice the muffled thud of advancing footsteps until the front door trembles beneath a thudding blow. Another. Then, as we all watch, the door flies open to reveal a hulking creature resonating so much rage he almost seems inhuman.
Maxim. His dark eyes fly to Vadim as he forms his hands into fists, and boldly crosses the threshold.
“Is this a game to you?” he demands, his accent so thick I can barely understand him. “Buying this house. Flaunting your ownership. To taunt me? I should—”
He plows into the foyer without seeming to notice the small figure nearly trampled in his path. Magda’s eyes go bug-wide as her mouth contorts into a startled o-shape. I don’t even think she manages to scream before she turns on her heel and runs.
But her target is already halfway to her. Without hesitation, Vadim snatches her into his arms, crushing her to his chest.
“Get out,” he growls, holding his daughter protectively close. I’ve never seen him like this—eyes flashing, expression lethal. “Now.”
Maxim falters, his body deflating as shock disrupts his furious features. He blinks, looking from Vadim, to Magda, and then me.
“You sick son of a bitch,” he says incredulously. “You think this is a family? Where did you find her, huh?” He jerks his chin at Magda. “Off the fucking street? Did you kidnap her too—” He breaks off, and I have a sinking suspicion why. Magda, from the safety of Vadim’s arms, glanced at him fearfully, turning far enough that he could see her face. A near mirror image of Vadim’s face.
I can’t describe the expression that befalls him next. As if struck, he staggers back a step, his massive body swaying before he manages to right himself, his gaze puzzled.
“Get out,” Vadim snarls. “Now, so help me God. Don’t make me resort to other methods. Leave.”
Maxim’s nostrils flare as his lips open and close wordlessly. Then, without so much as a parting threat, he turns and barrels through the remains of the door.
“Ena,” Vadim calls the second his brother disappears from view.
The stout bodyguard enters the foyer as if conjured from thin air, his expression gruff. “Now I secure perimeter?” he asks in his halting drawl. Simmering anger laces his tone, and I suspect I’m witnessing the tail end of an argument. Something to do with the property and securing it. Maxim had been able to waltz right through the front door—because Vadim had intentionally kept his security at bay?
Whatever his reasons for doing so, I assume they’ve quickly changed. “Yes,” he says with a nod. “No one comes close without you handling them personally.”
Ena nods and puffs up, satisfied. He crosses over to the remains of the door and inspects the damage. The confidence with which he does so makes me suspect that intervening after a violent situation isn’t exactly an unusual occurrence for him.
Vadim steps back, moving toward the kitchen. His voice reaches me, a soothing, persistent hum that chokes my heart.
“Chut, ma douce fille,” he murmurs, stroking Magda’s dark hair. “Tout va bien. Tu es en sécurité…”
He rocks her against him with such a gentle motion that I doubt he’s even aware of it. She clings to him, her face in his chest, her tiny hands gripping him so tightly her knuckles are white.
He continues to speak to her in French until she finally draws back and wiggles free of his grasp. Her face is beet red, I notice as she turns and marches past me, storming up the stairs. A second later, presumably, her bedroom door slams shut, the thud resonating throughout the house.
“I’ll kill him,” Vadim says, but his tone is far too serious. He means it.
Thinking quickly, I approach him and lace my fingers through his hair, planting my lips against his collar. “No, you won’t.” I smooth my hands down his front and finger the very end of his tie. “You’re going to help me make lunch for Magda. Then you’re going to have Ena secure the property, hmm? And later, you will think of a humane way to confront your brother.”
He stiffens. Cautiously, I feel his fingers sink through my hair as his arm encircles my waist, holding me close.
“Oui—yes,” he says, his accent thick. I file away another quirk of his for later reflection—he switches to French when overwhelmed, or protective, which gives a greater semblance to the words he murmured to me the other night. Tell me you’ll stay with me. That I can give you what you need, oui?
Overwhelmed, I draw back and turn my attention to the freezer. “Nuggets, or broccoli and cheese shaped like dinosaurs? Which do you think she’d like?”
He makes a low sound in his throat as he inspects his options. “I never was a fan of food crafted to look like other forms of food,” he says skeptically.
“Nuggets, it is!” I hand him the container to heat up while I head for the stairs, skirting Ena, who found a set of tools from somewhere and is working on the door with vigor.
My heart skips as I approach Magda’s room though I’m not sure why. Perhaps because I’m breaking another one of my impromptu rules—stay out of this. Let Vadim get to know his daughter in peace, no matter how awkward a process it might turn out to be.
So much for that.
“Magda?” I gather the nerve to knock on her door and gingerly push it open.
A sweet, soft melody drifts out. Halting. A song? The foreign words are uttered with meticulous care. French? It has to be. Every syllable is pronounced in an accent fitting enough to match Vadim’s—but overly careful as if parroted rather than fluent mastery of the language. Lost in concentration, she’s standing on the window seat, her hands braced against the window while her bear sits propped against her feet. She sings mindlessly while scanning the horizon with such an inquisitive expression I stop short.
She goes rigid and whips around to face me, her eyes narrowing. The song dies mid-phrase, and she crosses her arms once more.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her tone shrill but polite.
“Are you settling in okay?” I warily step inside the room. Her suitcase is open, various items strewn across the bed. A few pieces of clothing, a worn looking leather-bound book, and another stuffed animal, though one lacking the signs of surgery that It sports. Beside the lot is a small pink carrying case that looks as though it’s seen better days.
The moment my eyes settle on it, Magda jumps from the window seat and crosses to the bed. Meeting my gaze, she deliberately grabs her belongings and shoves them back into the suitcase, slamming it shut.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Thanks.”
“Okay.” I force a smile and turn for the door. “We’ll be just downstairs, and we made lunch—”
“I’m not a baby, you know.” Gone is the façade
of politeness. Her tone is so cutting that I can only think of one comparison fitting enough to match the icy hostility—the insistence of a certain billionaire that I wasn’t his type, for instance.
I turn to face her, sensing my eyebrow raise. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were.”
“Who are you anyway?” She appraises me with a haughty flick of her chin, her arms crossed. “You’re not married to him. Even if you do have a ring on.” She nods to my left hand, and I clench said fingers into a fist, caught.
My cheeks flame, but something prevents me from backing down. Instead, I advance a step toward her, keeping my tone level. “And if I’m not?”
She bites her lower lip and seems to mull it over. Then she smiles, and it’s such a beautiful match to Vadim’s. The one he wears when his aim is cruel. “Did you read my file?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes. “My last family, the Robinsons, are moving to the other side of the country, just to get away from me.” Her smile grows wider as if she’s utterly pleased with that fact.
But her eyes are every bit as expressive as her father’s, revealing the truth in snippets that require deciphering.
“I don’t know what I did to scare them so much,” she says, throwing her hands into the air. “Maybe it was when I tried to microwave the cat?”
Any other time, with any other child, I’d be rightfully disgusted. Fearful, even. Maybe I should be in this case? I don’t know what it is about her gleeful, ghoulish expression that makes me perch on the end of her bed and cross my legs casually.
“Is that all?” I ask, an eyebrow raised. “I once threatened to turn my father’s prized stallion into glue. I even looked up the number for what I thought was the glue factory. Then I ran away with a duffle filled with barbie dolls and an entire box of pop tarts.”
She blinks, caught off guard.
“I didn’t make it far, mind you.” I extend my fingers, inspecting the pink polish. “I was barely past the tennis courts before I chickened out. Besides, I didn’t really want to hurt old Dauntless, anyway. I just wanted to make my parents squirm.” It’s an odd story to relay so bluntly. Something I predictably wouldn’t tell most people on our first meeting.
Magda frowns, unsure of how to process it.
“Did the Robinsons do something to you that made you want to make them squirm?” I ask, free of judgment.
She purses her lips. “No. But what if I want to make you squirm?”
“Hmm.” I think it over, then I lean forward and meet her gaze head-on. If I’m not mistaken, she flinches and takes a small step back. “Then try harder. I may look like a dumb bimbo, but I too, went through a hellion phase. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever you’re planning—trust me, baby, I wrote the book.”
She wrinkles her nose, seemingly more confused than ever. “Why?” she demands.
I shrug as if the answer is obvious. “I wanted attention. I wanted to make my dad feel guilty. I wanted my mom to stop day drinking and look at me. I was bored. What made you want to provoke the Robinsons?”
Her piercing eyes narrow further. “You’re weird,” she declares, returning to her suitcase. She wrenches it open, and one by one withdraws what seems to be her few personal belongings. Displaying another one of Vadim’s quirks, she meticulously folds a cream-colored sweater and reaches for an orange shirt.
“We can take you shopping if you’d like,” I say, volunteering the use of Vadim’s magic credit card. “Do you like dresses? Pants?”
She doesn’t answer, preferring to sort her few outfits, leaving her book and stuffed animal on the bed. The case she grabs last. “This has to go in the fridge,” she says with all of the maturity of a miniature adult, not a seven-year-old. “It’s my insulin.”
“Okay. We’ll throw it in when we go downstairs. How about we speed things along?” I reach for a neatly folded jacket. “I can help you put these away—”
“Why?” Her tone isn’t quite as hostile, but her dark brows are furrowing, her frown skeptical. God, it’s so much like interacting with Vadim. Someone constantly on guard, mistrustful of any hint of kindness. For a horrible second, I wonder if his daughter’s upbringing was even a fraction as horrific as his. Then I push the thought away and tug the jacket from her grip, moving toward her closet as she watches on in shock.
“You have beautiful hair,” I tell her, ignoring the question. “I can braid it for you tonight, if you want. I used to love when my mom did that.”
“But you aren’t my mom,” she snipes almost in a singsong tone.
I ignore the bait and snatch an empty hanger from one of the many rails lining her very own massive walk-in closet. My brain skips ahead, envisioning all of the various clothing items she’ll need to stock it with. Pajamas. Day clothing. Night clothing. Dress-up clothing. If dressing her father was a challenge, I assume she’ll be just as surly to shop for. A challenge I’m willing to accept.
“Here,” I tell her, holding out my hand for the sweater in her grip. “Let me put your things away. Then we’ll go get some lunch, huh?”
So surly. So wary. To my surprise, she reluctantly steps forward and relinquishes the sweater. As I hang it, she reappears with the rest of her clothing balanced in her arms.
“What’s your name?” she asks almost grudgingly as I arrange her clothing according to color.
“Tiffany.”
She accepts the introduction with a sniff. “I’m hungry.”
I hang her last shirt and switch off the light. “I think the food should be ready. Let’s go check.”
She follows as I descend the stairs and enter the kitchen to find Vadim at the counter, dividing the contents of the platters between three plates. While I stow Magda’s pink insulin case into the fridge, he looks up, his expression almost panicked. Help me, I imagine him begging were he desperate enough to do so out loud. Don’t leave me.
I smile to reassure him.
“I hope you like nuggets,” I tell Magda as I take a seat at the table.
She claims the one across from me but frowns as Vadim places a plate down in front of her. Warily, she nudges a nugget with the tip of her finger before taking a hesitant bite. Ena’s cooking must win her over because all reluctance drains from her face, and she doesn’t need any more prompting.
I watch her, so distracted by the sight of her that I barely notice as Vadim sits beside me. Pretty soon, we’re both staring at her, his beautiful little girl, unaware of the nearness of her biological father. Or how much he loves her already. His fingers twitch as she reaches for a glass of water as if he has to stop himself from grabbing it for her. When she finishes her food, he’s already racing across the kitchen in search of a napkin.
“Am I still going to my school?” Magda asks, pushing her plate aside.
“Yes.” Vadim offers her a napkin that she doesn’t take. Awkwardly he sets it beside her and circles the table to reclaim his seat. “After the break. Don’t worry about any disruptions.”
“Okay,” she says, eyeing her tiny fingers. “And I can have new clothes?”
“Anything,” Vadim rasps.
Magda fixates her steely gaze on me. “And you’ll take me?”
“If you want,” I say cautiously. “We could go tomorrow?”
She shrugs and sips from her water. “Okay.”
I don’t think I’m the only one who misses the fact that Vadim is pointedly left out of her invitation.
“Can I go up to my room now?”
“Y-Yes—” Vadim barely gets the word out before she’s skipping merrily across the kitchen. Her tiny steps echo as she marches up the stairs, and once again, her door slams with force.
Vadim sighs, his jaw clenched, his gaze on the table. One of his hands forms a fist over the glass surface, the knuckles whitening.
I gingerly cradle his fingers with my own and lean down, kissing the rigid peaks. Then I feather another kiss over his wrist, up to his collar. Higher, until I finally reach his lips.
“You did good,” I insi
st as his mouth remains stubbornly closed. “You did so good—”
“Have I?” He withdraws from me and stands, tearing at his hair with both hands. “I need to work,” he says. “I’ll be in the study.”
I watch him go, more conflicted than ever. Can I withstand two switchblade humans battling their emotions? My heart throbs in a way that gives me serious doubt.
Chapter Nine
Left to my own devices, I pour myself a fresh glass of wine and decide to take my chances exploring the outside of the house. A small glass door near the back of the kitchen leads onto a stone terrace surrounding the private pool. Beyond, stretches the waterfront lined by a rocky beach that conjures the potential for plenty of warm, fuzzy memories to be made. The more I take in the view, the more I feel for my beautiful, tormented Vadim. The poor man had to have envisioned the same images I am.
Magda, playing in the pool or skipping happily by the water. Her, fishing water toys from the boathouse or racing off to the stable in the distance. Him, showing her how to ride his white mare, Zzazza…
As if summoned by the thought, I sense the door open behind me as a looming figure steps onto the terrace. “I come with an offering of contrition.”
I turn to find Vadim exiting the kitchen, a wine glass in tow. Beaming, I gladly accept his token. “You are forgiven, peon,” I tell him, taking a sip.
He settles against me from behind, his hands capturing my waist. It’s such an intimate position—I should balk, I think. Maybe I’m too tired, lulled by the promise of wine? Or I’m lying to myself, desperate to escape the obvious. It feels so natural being with him like this, and my ever-present list feels further away.
“Thank you for staying,” he says against my scalp.
Gratitude nearly knocks me over, and I hastily take a second sip of wine to steel myself. “Don’t mention it.”
Together, we watch the sun scuttle across the horizon, each of us envisioning a million potential uses for the beautiful property. Will any of them ever come to fruition? Who knows?
