by Lana Sky
Did I overhear?
And if so…
Am I bothered by what I’ve learned?
I match his silence with my own nonverbal answer. Arching toward him, I let our lips meet. He stiffens in response, his lips parting. The second they do, I loop my hand around his neck, extending the kiss as much as I dare. When he finally pulls back, I’m panting, both thrilled and wary.
“I heard everything,” I confess, my stomach heavy as those dark revelations loom overhead.
He sighs, averting his gaze from me. “And?”
“I want you to explain it to me,” I say, surprised by how calm I sound, all things considered.
That muscle in his jaw twitches as he sets me down onto the edge of the bed. Then he starts to pace, his hands sinking into his hair. “Explain. The supposed mother of my child trades in women the same way we were traded. She wanted to sell her own daughter. And I didn’t know a damn thing until someone literally dropped the news of her existence into my lap. At every turn, I seem to keep failing her—”
“You haven’t,” I insist, my voice breaking. He’s distant again, glowering into his past, swaying with the weight of it all. “You’re angry,” I add, stating the obvious. In some ways, it helps to say as much out loud. To acknowledge his obvious disgust at these dark, twisted things. Even though, from his scattered conversations with Milton, I sense that he’s more familiar with these horrific aspects of the world than I can even imagine.
Irina all but taunted as much.
“You should follow-up on the information Milton offered you,” I say softly, skirting the larger question of his real identity. For now. “For your sake.”
Because he needs this, I realize. Answers—even if they’re offered on a fragile bit of thread. If anything, he needs them for Magda. Her peace of mind. Her sanity.
But as stubborn as he is, I don’t think he can admit it out loud just yet. So he sinks onto the bed, reaching for me. Again, our lips collide, his tongue stealing deep. I grasp at him, surrendering myself to every searching kiss. Every groan he utters into my open mouth. Soon enough, we wind up tangled together, though he makes sure that I’m on top of him, lying on my stomach so as to not risk my stitches.
Groaning, he nuzzles the nape of my neck, smoothing his hands down my hips. “I will think about your suggestion,” he finally says. “It would require traveling upstate. Arrangements would have to be made, appointments organized.” He frowns at the prospect, and I can’t tell what he’s decided upon when he sighs in defeat. “Give me a few days to decide.”
“Okay.” I seal the promise with a kiss and rest my face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “I’m sorry for spying. But,” I add in my own defense, “I was just being a good fake wife, after all.”
“Don’t be,” he says, deceptively soft. “Because when you heal, I fully intend to punish you.”
I flinch, utterly thrilled by the threat. “Then add another crime to the tally, good Sir, because…” I suck in a breath and sneak a peek at his face. He looks so beautiful, so calm. I savor the expression selfishly before I confess, “I spoke to Maxim.”
He hisses out a breath, his nostrils flaring. Anger, yes—but nowhere near the extent I might have expected.
“Did he scare her purposefully?” he asks in a tone so murderous my toes curl.
“No,” I say quickly. “He didn’t. But… I think I know why she might have reacted to seeing him the way she did.”
The same way she’s reacted to him since their very first—albeit traumatic for Magda—meeting.
“Because of Irina?” Vadim questions coldly, his eyes fixated on something in the distance. Years away, I suspect, far in the past. “I’m sure she kept goons around who frightened her. She kept begging me not to let her be taken from me—” He breaks off, scowling, and I almost regret breaching the topic at all.
“But you won’t,” I say confidently. “You won’t let anyone frighten her ever again.”
“You’re right,” he agrees, pressing his lips against my forehead. “Because I aim to cut off the source of her fears. Right at the fucking head.”
I cringe at the ferocity in his voice—not that I can blame him for the violent imagery.
Such a fate would be a fitting end for Irina’s figurative role as Magda’s mad queen.
Chapter Sixteen
We must fall asleep with our limbs entwined, still fully dressed, because I’m startled to awareness when Vadim’s arms stiffen around me as the door to the room swings open. Once again, we’ve been interrupted by a small figure who doesn’t wait for an invitation.
Instead, she lurches onto the bed and burrows her way in between us, seeking out the safety of Vadim’s arms, which I’d been enjoying until now. As a result, I’m forced to make room as she slithers in to take my place.
Her father, however, has already switched into dad mode. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs to her, so gently that even I’m soothed by his tone. “I thought you liked the house?”
“I do,” Magda insists against his chest. “But it’s too dark in my room.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Too dark?”
“We can turn on the lights, chérie,” Vadim offers. His confusion matches mine.
“No,” Magda whines the second he starts to pull away. “I don’t want to.”
The independent girl who first came here a few weeks ago had no problem sleeping on her own. Though, back then, she wasn’t reminded of the aspects of her past that still obviously scare her. This new aversion, I suspect, has everything to do with what happened with Maxim. Whatever memories seeing him triggered, haunt her badly enough that she’ll risk her pride just to find safety in her father’s arms.
It would be heart-warming if it weren’t so tragic. I can’t stop myself from stroking my hand down her back, sensing her trembling beneath her nightgown.
“It’s dark,” she repeats, still clinging to Vadim, her body curled into a stubborn ball. “I want to sleep here.”
She doesn’t bother asking, not that the man holding her would ever have the heart to refuse her if she did. Sighing, I crack a smile and shift over to make room.
“I guess it’s okay for tonight,” I say.
Always prepared, Vadim repositions himself to somehow embrace us both on either side of him. Like leeches, we nestle into his warmth, draining him of all the comfort he has to offer.
And, he seems to possess more than enough for us both. When morning finally comes, he disentangles from our mass of limbs long enough to return minutes later with breakfast food piled on a tray and a jug of orange juice.
Sensing a shift in the mood, we eat in silence and wind up lounging in the master bed, sandwiched together—Vadim in the middle—with Magda and me on opposite ends. And, of course, It somewhere in between. For the first time, I realize that the bedroom even has a flat-screen television affixed to the far wall, defaulted to the news station. After flipping through the channels, we settle on watching cartoons and promptly vegetate the rest of the day.
The time spent in this way reveals a strange new aspect of our dynamic. The doting father. The clingy daughter. The pseudo-mother popping pain pills every few hours just to stay coherent. When evening comes, Vadim retreats again to bring back pizza, and we only leave at various intervals to get ready for bed—him assisting Magda—before we all wind up back in the master suite.
This time, she doesn’t even bother to give an excuse before burrowing beneath the blankets, not that Vadim or I ask for one. With her nestled in between us, we fall asleep in the middle of a show about rambunctious undersea critters and wake up to very much the same routine. Again, the cycle repeats the next day.
And the next.
By the end of the week, I’m forced to confront a horrible realization as I wake up with Magda’s foot in my stomach and Vadim’s breath fanning over my forehead. We’ve barely left the room, let alone the house in days. Our only outside interaction at all came in the form of Milton stopping by to remove my
stitches.
Otherwise, we’ve been on an island unto ourselves—and I think Magda’s fingers are starting to leave permanent marks on Vadim’s forearms.
There is no dancing around it—we haven’t just been indulging in the lazy inclinations of a seven-year-old. We’ve been coddling her. In essence, we’ve become those people. One of those weird families so fearful of the outside world and the danger it may bring that they collapse in on themselves. Eventually, we’ll have Magda encased in bubble wrap and only leave the house to fetch the mail. Though, with Ena around, we may not even get to do that.
Somewhere during Vadim rousing himself like a zombie to trudge down to the kitchen, I come to a conclusion.
“Rise and shine, princess!” I ruffle Magda’s hair until she blinks up at me, deliriously innocent and half asleep. “You too, Sir.” I slap Vadim on the ass as he rises to his feet.
Then I shimmy to the edge of the mattress and tentatively stand. After days of being damn near bedridden, I have to sway just to regain my balance. Once I do, I’m surprised to find my left side feels marginally better. Enough that I can march into the bathroom, leaving my bedmates staring after me. When I emerge—having brushed my teeth and run my wet fingers through my hair—I snap to command their attention.
“Hop to it! We’re going riding.”
Vadim raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to injure yourself again?” he asks, ever the spoilsport.
Undeterred, I wiggle my arms and only wince a little. “I’m nearly healed,” I say. “As long as we go slow, I’ll be fine. And the fresh air will do us all some good.”
He doesn’t look fully convinced. Nonetheless, he copies my lead, heading toward the closet.
But he’s not the only one needing persuading, it seems.
“Why?” Magda wonders, her voice bordering on a whine. With It against her chest, she burrows beneath the blankets and promptly disappears beneath them, she’s so tiny in such a large bed. “I don’t want to,” she declares, her voice muffled.
“Sure, you do.” I shuffle forward and yank the blankets from over her, revealing her pouting at me with an intensity that makes my heart soften and melt.
“Can’t we watch more cartoons?” she asks plaintively. “I don’t want to go outside.”
Her eyes flicker in the direction of a certain neighbor’s property, and I sigh in exasperation. The entire display is almost enough to make me give in. Almost…
But then I envision myself as a helicopter mom with badly permed hair leading Magda around by a child leash and promptly change my mind.
“No. Come on, you love riding,” I say, doing my best to cajole her. Judging from her stubborn frown, it’s going to be an uphill battle. “You can show me how to ride Magnus,” I add, naming the horse Vadim procured for me. “I haven’t even gotten to test him out yet.”
“And,” Vadim pitches in, returning from the closet fully dressed in a pair of jodhpurs and a black T-shirt, “we can race her on my Zzazza. With you as my copilot, I’m sure we’ll win, even at a slower pace.”
I look at him in mock indignation. “You’re on! What do you say, Mags?”
She eyes us warily, mulling it over. Finally, she crawls off the bed and marches toward her room, her head down, her shoulders slumped in defeat. I follow and make a show out of rifling through her riding outfits—mysteriously, it seems at least ten more sets have joined the first one Vadim bought her since the last time she’s ridden—settling on a bold, scarlet jacket, white blouse, and black pants.
The clothing tempts her when even my best jokes don’t. She’s still brooding during our quick breakfast and the entire walk out to the stable. I almost fear I’ve made a mistake, but the second she spots the face of her pony peeking eagerly from over the door of her stall, her entire face brightens.
By the time the three of us are out on the trail—me riding my black stallion Magnus, with Vadim and Magda astride his beautiful Zzazza—I have no more doubts. We needed this, all of us. Fresh air. Peace. The tranquility we find in exploring the furthest reaches of the property by horseback.
Vadim picked his property well. It spans way more ground than one would think when observing the space solely from the house. Alone, he commands a good bit of the waterfront and the surrounding woods. A series of old paths lend themselves well to becoming decent trails with a bit of work to flesh them out.
Something even Magda picks up on. “Could I ride my pony here one day with Ainsley?” she asks midway in. It’s the first complete sentence she’s said since leaving the house, but her expression has brightened at least. Gone is the surly frown, and her eyes gleam as she looks back to find Vadim nodding.
“Of course, chérie. I’m sure you could.”
Content with that answer, she settles against his chest. By the time we return to the house, she’s almost fully shaken the foul mood entirely. After dinner, I help her up to bed and promptly discover that Vadim has made some minor changes to our previous routine.
“You have to brush it this way,” Magda commands, showing me how to coax the brush through her hair, supposedly the same way her father does. Once I’ve finally arranged the braids to her liking and tucked her beneath the blankets, I retreat for the door.
“Oh!”
I turn around to find her lurching upright, riffling through her end table until she withdraws her cell phone from a drawer. As I watch her dial a number in confusion, she looks up and says, “I promised Harry and Gigi I’d call them once a week.”
“Harry and Gigi?” She mentions the prospect of calling these mystery people with such earnest seriousness that I’m at a complete loss. Until I realize. “You mean my parents?”
She nods and settles against her pillow with the phone pressed to her ear. “Vadim said I could. Harry is going to tell me about his strawberry plants, and Gigi said she was going to send me dress-up clothes—” She breaks off, cocking her head to listen, and I’m promptly forgotten. “Hi,” she says in her charming way, so similar to Vadim’s disarming cadence. It’s like she’s studied his tactics for manipulation as an art form. “Yes, I’ve been in the muck…”
I leave her to it, escaping down to the kitchen to find Vadim washing the dishes, looking deliciously domestic.
“You gave her permission to call my parents once a week?” I ask, slipping my arms around him from behind. “How very kind of you. They’re smitten. I think they might have kidnapped her if we didn’t leave when we did.” My voice turns wistful as I reflect on just how quickly my parents have taken to her. To him.
Jim was lucky to get a Christmas card and a coupon in the mail for his birthday.
“She insisted,” Vadim says, frowning. He turns to face me, cupping my chin against his palm. “But… I’ve decided. She deserves her answers, and I intend to find them.”
“I think you should,” I say softly.
His furrowed brows betray that he doesn’t fully like the prospect, but his fingers part my hair, tilting me back for a searching, slow kiss. “And, though I’m not sure how long it will take, I believe you may be safer with me,” he adds.
I feel my nose wrinkle. “What about Magda?”
His gaze darkens as he contemplates the possibility of leaving her behind, even for a little while. “Ena will watch over her.”
“Or,” I say, tentatively licking my lips. “She can still have Ena’s protection, and the benefit of being around someone who can actually participate in a game of tea party.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
I nod. “And an uncle who, admittedly, is big and scary enough to protect her from anyone who might harm her, let alone Irina—”
“You want me to leave my daughter with Maxim?” He breaks away from me, scowling at the mere idea.
But I don’t relent, following him into his study. “What scenario do you think will benefit her more in the long run? Having a friend her own age to play with, and getting to know her uncle—learning not to fear him to the point that she can’t even sleep i
n her own bed for a week—or huddling here with Ena watching cartoons all day and trying to make him pretend to be a princess? By the time we come back, I’m sure she’ll be starting to put down roots into the flooring.”
He scoffs, unconvinced. “What makes you think he would even agree to it?” He whirls to face me, but rather than angry, he just looks…helpless. Like a drowning man who knows a lifeline is within reach—but he’s afraid it will vanish the second he grasps it.
“I think he will,” I say, stepping into him, letting our bodies connect and collide. “If you ask him to.”
He’s still frowning, embodying Magda’s surly, brooding mood from this morning. But eventually, he sighs, wrapping his arms around me—though taking care with my injuries. “Maybe. But…”
I rest my head on his chest, wiggling into his touch. “But?”
“But if Maxim refuses to watch Magdalene, then you have to tell Ena he’ll be on tea party duty.”
I giggle, picturing the image in my head. “Deal.”
Sending Magda to Maxim’s for a harmless playdate, during which she can bond with both her uncle and pseudo-cousin, sounded promising in theory. A win-win, actually. The reality, however, turns out to be a lesson in child wrangling as Magda refuses to get out of the car once she recognizes the house we’re parked in front of.
With her arms crossed, her persistent utterances of “No,” quickly devolve to high-pitched shouting. Soon, her stoic façade gives way entirely to wracking sobs and real, enormous tears spilling down her cheeks as Vadim finally coaxes her from the backseat.
“Oh, ma chérie…” He rocks her in his arms, murmuring soothingly to her in French while, from the house, a curious press of faces watches us from the windows.
“Look at me,” Vadim finally urges in a tone stern enough to make her risk lifting her head from his shoulder. Her bloodshot eyes scan his imploringly as her white-knuckled hands grip his forearms to what I’m sure is the point of pain. “I will never put you in danger,” Vadim tells her. “Do you believe that? That I will always do what is best for you?”
