by Lana Sky
Slowly, Magda nods even as her eyes continue to spill over. Her bottom lip trembles, her expression so stricken…
I relent first. “Maybe we should go back—”
“No.” Vadim crouches down, settling his daughter on his knee. Gingerly he wipes away her tears and smooths the wild curls back from her face. She has no choice but to quiet down and listen to him. “My brave girl is going to wait here while I go inside, oui?”
He sounds so confident and assured for her. When I can tell from how the muscle in his jaw twitches that inside, he’s thinking—I’ll go inside, and hopefully, Maxim refuses to take you, and this is all rendered moot, and we can watch cartoons for the rest of the week. And yet, he does his best not to reveal his doubts. He smothers his own unease, entirely for her.
“Why don’t you stay with Mr. Ena?”
Following his cue, Ena steps forward to take her hand, and she promptly clings to his hip, the princess, and her trusty henchman.
Together Vadim and I approach the house only to have the door opened from within the moment we reach it. Lucius isn’t the one standing guard on the other end, this time. A wary Francesca greets us instead, her eyes guarded as they flick over Vadim.
And looming behind her, the picture of brute strength, is Maxim, his posture tense, dark eyes flashing. I sense myself instinctively step back, letting the brothers square each other up in their unique, calculating ways. Maxim glowers while Vadim eyes him coldly, his unease painfully apparent.
“Hello,” Francesca says softly, and yet her voice alone seems to crack the tension enough that Maxim uncurls his hands out of fists. “What brought you over?” she prompts, her eyes on me.
Sighing, I take my cue and forge a path inside, leaving Vadim to follow in my wake. “We wanted to see if Magda could spend the day while we—”
“She can sense your hostility, you do realize,” Vadim says in a deadly quiet tone. My alarm bells go off, and I instantly regret suggesting this option. Nothing, it seems, can ease thirty years of animosity overnight. Not even the welfare of a little girl.
“Your hatred toward me,” Vadim continues in a hiss, still positioned in the doorway, his head cocked, gaze ice-cold. “You scared the hell out of her. We couldn’t get her out of bed for a week. She would rather hide inside than feel safe venturing out of her own home. Because of you.”
For all of his coldness…
Something in Maxim’s expression gives for a split second, and I know the accusation hit home. His jaw twitches, his lips parting before slamming shut into a fearsome scowl.
“So what?” he tosses back, his accent thick. “You demand I leave? Try to buy this property out from under me, again?”
Vadim grits his teeth, and I sense something in him falter. Spite? Guilt? He’s wavering on a precipice, and one wrong act will send him hurtling over it—both of them.
The only way to salvage this, I suspect, is to throw caution to the wind and lay the cards on the table.
“Magda wants to spend the day with Ainsley,” I blurt out. “Vadim and I will be out of town for a few hours, if you wouldn’t mind her playing here.”
“It will be good for them,” Francesca pitches in. Following my lead, she steps forward, bracing her hand on Maxim’s forearm and bit by bit some of the crackling tension eases. A minuscule bit. “They can play outside—”
“But can he refrain from taking out his hatred toward me on a child?” Vadim wonders, though I suspect that question is directed more at himself than anyone else. And I can tell from the set of his jaw alone that he wants to believe it. He does. But he’s spent so much of his life expecting the worst from those around him.
His first instinct is always to suspect.
“Can you?” he demands of Maxim.
The other man grits his teeth. “Can I trust you not to steal a child?” he counters. “Related to you by blood or not.”
They eye each other fiercely, but as the seconds pass, they don’t come to blows at least.
Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore.
“I’ll go get Magda.”
I race for the door as both men swivel in my direction with equally fierce expressions. Vadim flinches toward me. To stop me?
“Yes,” Francesca encourages from beyond the fray before he can voice any refusal out loud. “I’ll go get Ains.”
Taking my cue, I hasten outside and find Magda still clinging to Ena’s pantleg so tightly the bodyguard has to adjust his posture just to withstand her weight thrown against his one leg. Her eyes dart to the house—searching for Vadim?
When I reach for her, though, she takes my hand and reluctantly follows me inside. My heart pounds, my throat tightening as I realize that bringing a traumatized seven-year-old into the thick of a brooding feud between two powerful men may not be the best course of action.
But right when I hesitate, Vadim appears in the doorway to the house. Gone is his hateful mask. He looks neutral again, his composed, poised self.
Meeting his daughter’s gaze, he inclines his head for her to follow. Her trust in him is apparent solely in the fact that she does, even as her grip on me tightens to the point I feel myself wince.
Maxim is no longer in view, I realize, as we cross the spacious living room for a door leading out to their terrace. It seems the other man has migrated outside, his posture tense, his back to us as we step out to join him.
When he turns to face Magda, I exhale sharply. A blind man could sense the sheer amount of discipline he’s utilizing to keep his expression neutral. Some of the ice leaves those cold, dark eyes, rendering him slightly less “big and scary.” But apparently not enough.
Releasing me, Magda contorts herself to cling to Vadim’s leg, forcing him to stop short. It’s such a striking contrast to the brave little girl who had spurned him just a few short weeks ago. Though I think this new display of emotion is merely a testament to how much she’s opened herself up to him. How much she’s learning to trust him.
And Vadim’s pained frown tells me that he is well aware of that fragile bond. Sighing, he sinks down to her level and cradles her chin against his palm, urging her to meet his gaze.
“I know you’re afraid.” He brushes some of her tears away and smooths back her curls. “But you don’t need to be. Here, you can play with your friend and focus on your tea parties.”
She shakes her head. “Why are you leaving me? Again!”
“I’m not,” he says firmly. “I will never leave you. Besides, Mr. Ena whom I trust more than anyone else in the world will stay with you, yours to command. I’ll return as soon as I can, and you have your cell phone, yes?” He brushes his hand along the fanny pack that’s become a near-permanent fixture around her waist. “If you ever feel unsafe, I will return within an instant.”
He sounds so damn reassuring, his expression persistently calm. Even she can’t resist. Her bottom lip trembles, her eyes still watering, but she loosens her grip on him enough for him to point to Maxim.
“And I’m not leaving you with just anyone,” he says, his voice a deep, soothing hum. “This is your uncle, chérie. He will protect you while I’m gone. And if he doesn’t…” His eyes flash. “Then he will answer to me.”
If Maxim takes offense to the threat, he surprisingly doesn’t say as much. With his face still arranged in that careful, neutral mask, he stalks forward and crouches, extending his hand in Magda’s direction, even as she flinches back.
“I hear you like ponies,” he says, his accent sounding more charming than threatening. “Would you like to see mine?”
Magda glances warily at her father, who nods in encouragement. “It’s okay.”
Slowly, she places her tiny hand on Maxim’s enormous one and allows him to lead her toward the edge of the terrace. Even so, she looks back at Vadim, her bloodshot eyes frantic.
“It will be alright,” he says so fiercely even her fear can’t withstand his assurance. “I promise you.”
She nods and turns back to Maxim. T
o the man’s credit, he meets her gaze with gentle acknowledgment, and something in my heart twists a little. These brothers...
It’s like they were designed to repel all assumptions of care, empathy, or compassion, only to reveal an uncanny knack for emoting all three when pushed to do so. At least by those they deemed worthy of such emotions.
Case and point, a tiny figure races from the house and snatches up Maxim’s other hand without an ounce of fear.
“Wait for me!” Surging ahead, Ainsley winds up pulling her two companions behind her, forging the way to the stable. “I can’t wait for you to see my pony,” she prattles to Magda. “You’ll love him!”
“Score one for super dad,” I murmur as Vadim rises to his feet, his expression constricted. I know that nothing in the world was probably harder for him to endure than this moment—save leaving Magda in the first place, of course. Regardless, his jaw is clenched with resignation as we exit the house and return to the car.
“She’ll be fine,” I insist as he glances back at the house at least ten times before finally climbing into the driver’s seat.
Without looking my way, he mutters under his breath, “She better be.”
Chapter Seventeen
For some reason—despite the fact that he’s rarely relied on a massive show of security in the time I’ve known him—I’m surprised to discover our road trip seems to consist of just me and him. No driver. No Ena.
His trusted friend hasn’t been sidelined, of course, but merely reassigned to cover a target Vadim values above all else. And yet, his seemingly second most important target, he’s decided to guard personally.
It betrays such a confidence in his own skillset, and a level of concern for me—one declared without him having to strut down a boardwalk to show me off. With his actions alone, he proves the lengths he’s willing to go.
But have I been willing to do the same?
“Don’t tell me you’re so far unimpressed by our solo excursion,” Vadim remarks dryly, drawing my attention to him. He’s smiling, I find, his lips in a rare, lazy grin that makes my heart sputter further. At the same time, he looks so tired.
His eyes are bloodshot, his expression haggard. A sudden thought hits me—he probably hasn’t slept much at all these past few days. With Magda in his arms, maybe he’d been too afraid to—too worried about failing her trust in him to ever drop his guard.
So, he put her first over his own discomfort.
“I’m more than impressed,” I confess, though our impending destination is far from my mind.
He frowns, stroking the back of my hand. “And here I was, assuming you were disappointed we’ve forsaken the private jet.”
I puff up with mock indignation. “I’m with you for the designer clothing, remember? Not the limitless travel.”
He laughs, but something darkens his expression. Doubt?
“And, I’m with you for the sex,” I add, nestling against him before his paranoia can fester. “And your patience. Your kindness. And your ass. And…” I bring my mouth near his ear, my voice husky. “Your filthy brain.”
His posture relaxes, a sly grin playing over his lips. But even dirty talk can’t seem to placate him for long. Within seconds, he’s scowling again—but before I can even prompt him for a reason, he sighs. “There is always one possibility,” he says softly. “One I’ve considered since the day I learned of Magda’s existence.”
“Oh?” His expression warns me that whatever his suspicion, it doesn’t inspire warm and fuzzy feelings.
He cocks his head, meeting my gaze, still stroking my hand. “There is always the chance that she isn’t mine. That Irina crafted an elaborate deception just to convince me she was. I had test results commissioned from a private laboratory, but…” He shrugs. “I am not so foolish to believe that even my most rigorous testing is infallible.”
I don’t know what to say, so I bite my lip and try to see the dilemma from his angle. It is possible—in the mind of a paranoid man so mistrustful of the world around him. But even so, there are aspects of Magda too authentically him to have been faked. Her mannerisms. Her facial features. Her illness.
“I think she’s yours through and through,” I tell him. “Biologically or not.” But another realization makes me observe him from the corner of my eye. “Is that why you were afraid to adopt her before now?”
He flinches. “No! I mean…” He rakes a hand through his hair, disrupting the mussed curls. “It isn’t easy for me to let people into my life,” he confesses. “I know Irina. I know her games. And I knew that I couldn’t survive letting a child in—mine or not—and losing her. Or worse, having her utilized as a pawn. If I kept her at a distance, it would be better for us both…”
Until he couldn’t. Until the desire for a family got the best of him, and he took on that risk. Whatever Irina’s plan may be, he won’t give up Magda without a fight.
“She is mine now,” he says as if reading my mind. His eyes brim with a raw emotion I can’t name. Devotion? Love? Desperation? “No one will take her from me. No one.”
I can’t resist slipping my hand within his as a silent gesture of reassurance. But I know, as a sleepy, small town appears on the horizon, that my vulnerable Vadim will have to take a backseat to his more ruthless personality.
And that I better hold on for the ride.
The building where Magda was abandoned turns out to be a small, modest brick-and-mortar front for what seems to be a nonprofit child advocacy program.
“The United States no longer relies on the traditional concept of an orphanage,” a woman explains as she leads us on a tour of a spacious series of wide, open rooms decorated with framed photos of children, seemingly from all over the world.
“That’s why I remember it so clearly, the day Magdalene showed up,” she says. “I couldn’t fathom it—someone just dropping a little girl here, all alone, without even checking to make sure staff were even on the property. Thank God a janitor saw her when he did. Naturally, we called the police, but we do have the capacity to take in children in emergency situations, so she stayed here in the facility for a few days as they attempted to establish her identity. You know, I was sure that she had been kidnapped. A little girl so well-groomed and impeccably dressed. I think her clothing was worth more than my salary.” She breaks off with a nervous laugh and shakes her head, her smile fading. “But… She didn’t cry like you’d think a normal child might. She didn’t ask for her mother or father, or anything of the sort. It was almost as if she knew.”
“Knew what?” Vadim prompts. I’ve never seen his expression so rigid, his eyes dark and distant.
“That she had been abandoned,” the woman says with an apologetic nod. “Honestly, I haven’t stopped thinking about her since. I’m so glad that she’s found an adoptive family—”
“How did you learn her name?” Vadim demands, so lost in his own thoughts that I doubt he realizes that he interrupted the woman at all. “Her birthday?” I can tell from the set to his jaw that it’s physically paining him to ask more. Questions I suspect he already knows the answer to.
Did you learn anything about her mother? Her father? Her origins?
“She told us her name,” the woman says, wrinkling her mouth. “Though, she had a slip of paper in her clothing. It had her name written on it, along with her birthday and immunization records—all validated, of course.”
“A slip of paper?” Vadim raises an eyebrow, and I recognize the intense set to his jaw. He wasn’t aware of that detail.
“Yes. The police took it in their initial investigation,” the woman admits. “But… I made a copy. I’m not sure why, it all felt so strange. I think I felt compelled to remember it somehow. If you wait right here, I’ll be back.”
She disappears down a winding hallway while Vadim starts to pace, stroking his jaw, the gears in his brain whirring. I watch him, even as I find myself imagining this place two years ago, with a five-year-old Magda walking haughtily through its halls. She wo
uld have been even smaller, twice as frail, and under the assumption that neither parent wanted her. My heart breaks for that girl, and I’m more resolved now than ever to live up to the commitment Vadim admittedly goaded me into. Adopting her—no matter who may stand in the way.
“Here it is!” The woman returns brandishing a slip of neatly folded photocopy paper. Vadim scans the surface, his eyes widening.
“That logo…”
“You recognize it?” The woman tilts her head thoughtfully. “Eingel Industries is one of our main contributors. In fact, for well over a decade, their donation has far exceeded all others. It was an odd coincidence, but there’s a factory not too far from here, and the workers tend to scatter their promotional materials all over. I’d thought her parents may have worked there, but honestly, it could have been taken from the local library just as plausibly.”
Something I sense Vadim doubts. His hands shake as he scans the page over and over again. From over his shoulder, I make out a few lines written in crisp, neat handwriting. A series of unique flourishes make the style stand out—far more elegant than one might suspect of a desperate guardian dropping off an abandoned child.
Does he recognize it as Irina’s?
“May I have this?” he asks of the woman.
“Of course. I’m so glad to hear that Magdalene is safe and thriving. I think about her often. I wonder… Does she still have that quirk when it comes to roses?”
Vadim frowns, still reading the note. “Roses?” From his tone, I doubt he understands the significance of that one statement.
But I do.
“Quirk?” I ask, turning my full attention toward the woman.
She purses her lips, wringing her hands. “It was around Valentine’s day when she arrived—which was why I couldn’t imagine someone bringing her here. It was freezing. Anyway, we host a few children’s groups throughout the year, and we prepare crafts for them to complete during the holidays. That month, we had them design rose vases that we displayed throughout the facility. They truly were beautiful.” She smiles faintly, only for the expression to drain from her face, replaced by utter confusion. “When poor little Magdalene stepped foot inside, she vomited. It was one of the first things she said—not to ask for her parents, but simply ‘I hate that smell.’ We had to clear away any trace of the flowers from the area we kept her in. I was wondering if she had grown out of the aversion.”
