Page 52

“Is this something you want?”

“He’s mine.”

That ends the conversation, and Ilya knows. And I know him. It’s only over for now.

I breathe out and run a hand over my face.

Ilya’s right to ask if this is what I want. I’ve never been a man who gets soft about children. When traitors use their offspring to plead out of a beating, punishment, death, it only annoyed, never swayed me.

To me, it just seemed like they were convenient to the guy who’d fucked up, a thing to trot out as their saving grace.

I shudder.

My never giving in to the coward who told me of his pregnant wife or the young one at home helped earn me some of my nicknames; most of them I forget as nothing has stuck, but the sentiments? They have. I’m carved of ice and rock. I have no heart. I’m a demon. I hate children.

I don’t. But they’re a gift, not a right, and even for a man like me, I’m not opposed to them. But my life story never had room for a child, not how I wrote it.

Maybe I should just say kids were never on my radar, because the last person I ever want to be is my rotting in hell father.

I’ve been too focused on proving that bastard wrong in his assessment of me. Too focused on turning the tides to prove I was good enough to run the bratva. And now I’m running it better than he ever did, ever could. Because I can see how the future changes and the bratva must change too. Or die out.

Thinking about it, I guess I always had a vague notion that one day in an unmapped future there’d be kids when my position was more than cemented, after I married someone to further the bratva.

But like this? Now? I’m not…

It’s a fucking lot to wrap my head around.

With a sigh, I get up, restless inside. Ilya can’t do anything until first thing in the morning. I go up and check on Alina, easing her door open when she doesn’t respond to my knock.

She’s fast asleep, still in the wedding dress, curled up, tears still damp on her skin. Hundreds of balled-up tissues litter the floor and bed.

I pull the covers up over her, brushing the ones on the bed to the floor. My heart breaks, the ache bone-deep. I fucking hate that my baby sister’s in pain and there’s not a thing I can do.

Short of bringing Max back or turning back the clock, itdoesn’t matter what I say or do. Nothing will make this better. Nothing.

I tuck her in, smooth her hair from her face, and kiss her forehead. Then I creep back out, closing the door softly.

Above me, a certain room calls, but I close that down.

I’m not ready to face her.

The anger in me, the latent threads of lust—because that thing that drew me to her three years ago is still there, alive and well—are things I’m not interested in exploring.

So I head back down, crossing the foyer and going down the hall to the living room. I take a breath before I open the door.

“Take a break,” I say to Olga.

She nods and leaves.

After she goes, I stand, the golden low light of the lamps warm and inviting, something a small child might find comforting.

I stare at the toddler, curled up, his chubby little hand fisted on the pillow Olga got from who knows where. For a moment anger flares at her leaving him alone, but I don’t think she did. There’s enough staff here to do her bidding on my behalf.

The cushions are now scattered that previously formed a fort, he is wedged in with actual pillows, and his blanket neatly tucked around him. Something inside goes tight, twists, and I’m flooded by a pure warmth that prickles.

I’m heavy and light at the same time. Sasha is so peaceful in his sleep, like he belongs, like he’s always been here. He fills the space so solidly I can’t imagine it without him.

Shit. My throat goes tight and I walk over to him, crouching down, and I gently touch his forehead as I brush a strand of silky hair from his skin. He’s like warmth itself. A tiny angel of joy and now my heart is swollen and I blink hard.