Page 18

So I compromise. “What if we sit in the chair and read?”

Demyan fitted his room with a big overstuffed armchair that’s perfect for little boys to climb on and curl up on or someone to sit and hold him.

“Okay, Mama.”

I sit and he climbs on my lap and it’s not until Demyan hands me Sasha’s favorite book that I realize I should be sharing Sasha with him right now. But I can’t. And I should feel guilty, too, but I don’t.

I’m just too happy to have Sasha back in my arms. In my life. I’m too relieved he’s okay and unharmed.

We read, well, I do ,and Demyan and Sasha listen. When Sasha falls asleep, Demyan rises, coming over to take Sasha.

“I’ll put him to bed, and you go rest,” he says.

“No.” I suck in a breath. “I need to.”

Demyan veers back and nods and it hurts my heart to see him turn to walk from the room.

“Hey,” I say.

He stops and turns.

I smile. “We can do it together.”

And Demyan, a man seemingly made of granite, softens with pleasure. It’s not the relief of rescuing me and this is something special which makes me throb with guilt because I’ve robbed him of it for two years.

It’s love for his son. Pleasure of being invited, even just a little, into the world I share with Sasha.

The fragility of the moment threatens to take up all the space in the room and I don’t breathe in case I ruin it.

But he moves first, blinking fast, his shoulders lifting and falling and his gaze sweeping down to his son.

“Here,” I say, offering him Sasha.

He freezes but as he looks at me, he relaxes and shakes his head. “I’ll do it tomorrow, if you’ll let me.”

“He’s our son. Of course.”

I think I fall for him harder because I get how difficult that was, giving up the moment I offered. Demyan pulls back the covers and I carefully place our son in the bed, tucking him in, running a hand over his soft hair and warm cheek, and I kiss him good night.

Demyan bends to touch his cheek and all I can think of in that moment is everything that was taken from him. Not by me and fate, but by his father, and I don’t think I’ve hated someone I’ve never met, someone who’s dead, as much as I hate that man.

When he straightens, Demyan takes my hand. “Bed.”

I sway a little. “I’m not tired.”

But he scoops me up like I weigh nothing at all and kisses my throat, nipping lightly. “Liar.”

He carries me into his room—our room—and lays me down on the bed. Then he sits watching me for long moments before sighing and clasping his hands. Demyan swallows, looking at them. “Are you okay? Really?”

“Demyan. You saved our son, and then you risked your life for me.”

He nods. “I—I’ll run you a bath.”

“I’m not two.” I sit up, putting a hand on his shoulder, and the vibrations that run through his strong body somehow give me strength. “And I’m good. Safe now. You saved me, Demyan. More than that, you saved Sasha.”

I lean in and kiss his cheek.

He stands and walks into his en suite. The hiss of the shower greets me. When he comes out, he’s followed by a small mist of steam, his trousers dotted with water spray.