Page 46 of The Mafia's Septuplets
“Seven babies.” She shakes her head slightly. “That’s quite unprecedented.”
Her clinical response surprises me. Most people react with either excitement or concern, but Alina’s reaction is almost analytical. I wonder who told her it was seven, but it’s probably common knowledge around the estate by now.
We exchange a few more polite words before she continues toward the guest wing. I wonder what she really thinks about the chaos that’s invaded her employer’s orderly household.
In my suite, I prepare for bed with ritualistic care before going into Iskander’s room. He isn’t it there yet, but I crawl into hisbed anyway, comforted by his scent clinging to the sheets and knowing he’ll take me into his arms when he comes to bed.
I shift and turn, trying to get comfortable. My body no longer belongs entirely to me, being already expanded and sensitive in ways that require constant adjustment. I settle into a new position under the expensive covers and try to quiet my mind, but thoughts chase each other in endless circles.
Just as sleep claims me, my dreams transport me back to Henri’s shop on a winter afternoon when I was nineteen and dating a boy who thought my virginity was something to be conquered.
In the dream, just like it happened in real life, Henri and I are making madeleines in his tiny kitchen above the shop, with our hands covered in flour and butter while golden cakes bake in his ancient oven. The kitchen smells like vanilla and lemon and is warm and safe in the way only Henri’s presence could create.
“Willa,ma petite,” he says in the gentle voice I miss desperately, “You must learn the difference between a man who sees your worth and one who only sees what he can take from you.”
Dream-Henri shapes perfect shells of batter while speaking with patient wisdom. “A man who truly cares for you will never pressure you to give more than you’re ready to offer. He will wait for your trust like these cakes wait for proper baking time.”
“How do I know the difference?” Dream-me asks the question carrying all the confusion and fear of being nineteen and inexperienced with love.
“Watch his hands,ma chère. A good man’s hands create beautiful things, they protect what matters, and they never take without permission. A selfish man’s hands only grab and consume.”
The dream shifts and blurs. Henri’s voice becomes distant as my unconscious mind processes the day’s revelations about Iskander’s violent capabilities alongside his unexpected gentleness.
I wake with tears on my cheeks and Henri’s voice still echoing in my memory. The wisdom he’d offered about recognizing good men seems impossibly relevant to my current situation with a Russian crime boss who kills people yet treats me with careful tenderness.
My breathing becomes rapid and shallow, panic rising as I realize I don’t know how to reconcile the man who killed Alexei and probably others with the one who holds me like I’m made of spun glass. What would Henri think about the choices I’m making? Would he be proud of my strength, or horrified by the world I’ve allowed myself to be pulled into?
The panic attack builds with frightening speed, constricting my chest until I can’t draw proper breath. The room spins around me as I struggle to distinguish between dream and reality, past and present, and safety and danger.
“Willa?” Iskander’s voice cuts through the panic, and I realize I must have cried out in my panic.
He sits on the bed beside me, wearing pajama pants and nothing else, with his hair mussed and his expression alert with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Bad dream.” I push out the words between gasping. “I can’t seem to catch my breath.”
He crosses the room and sits on the edge of my bed, his presence immediately grounding me to the present moment. “You’re safe. You’re here with me, and nothing can hurt you.”
The deep rumble or his masculine voice is exactly what I need to combat the irrational terror consuming my nervous system. He doesn’t demand explanations or try to fix what’s wrong. He simply stays close while I fight my way back to rational thought.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His question comes once my breathing has returned to something approaching normal.
I shake my head, not ready to explain dreams about Henri’s wisdom or my confusion about Iskander’s dual nature. “I don’t think that would help right now.”
He accepts my reluctance without argument. “Would you like me to stay until you fall back to sleep?”
The offer is what I need even though accepting it means admitting weakness. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all. The work I was doing can wait.” He settles beside me on top of the covers, close enough that I can hear his steady breathing but far enough away that I don’t feel crowded. His presence creates a buffer between me and the lingering anxiety from my dreams.
“Thank you.” I whisper into the darkness.
“Sleep, Willa. I’ll watch over you.” He brushes a kiss against my temple.
His promise wraps around me as snugly as his arms, and gradually, my body relaxes into the safety he provides. Even as sleep claims me again, Henri’s voice continues offering guidance I’m no longer sure how to follow, while I consider the complexity of loving a man whose hands have created both violence and tenderness.