Page 7

Chapter 7

The Definition of Torture

Dmitri

H aving Erin at my dining table is pure, exquisite torture.

Her scent—vanilla, rosin, and a whisper of something I can’t name but know down to my bones—clings to the air, subtle but inescapable, winding around my ribs like a vice. It seeps into my bloodstream, settles in my chest, makes my grip tighten on my fork like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

And then she reaches for the breadbasket.

The sleeve of her sweater grazes my forearm. A whisper of contact. Fleeting. Devastating. My muscles go taut, my entire body bracing for the jolt that tears through my nervous system like a live wire.

I shouldn’t notice these things.

Shouldn’t track the delicate way she tucks a stray curl behind her ear, completely oblivious to how much I want to do it for her. Shouldn’t follow the curve of her wrist as she lifts her glass, or the slow, deliberate movement of her throat as she swallows.

She doesn’t know.

She can’t know.

“So, Ris,” Erin turns to my daughter, oblivious to the way she’s undoing me, thread by thread. “What foods do you love? Besides pasta and pizza, of course. I should probably know your favorites if I’m going to be here for a while.”

“Everything Papa makes!” Ris declares proudly, grinning up at her. “Especially pelmeni. And his blini!”

Erin sighs dramatically, flashing me a look. “I’m not much of a cook, but I’d love to learn some of these dishes. You know, for when you’re away at games.”

The thought hits harder than I expect.

Erin in my kitchen. Sleeves rolled up, barefoot, hair twisted into a messy bun. Standing where Elena once stood.

I grip my fork tighter. Push through the burn in my chest.

“I can show you,” I hear myself say before I can stop the words. My voice is raspy. “The basics,” I add quickly, forcing my tone to neutral. “For Ris.”

Her lips part slightly in surprise, like she wasn’t expecting the offer. Like maybe she heard the scrape in my voice.

She nods, turning her focus back to her plate, but the air between us tightens.

“Would you like wine?” I ask abruptly, grasping for anything that might ground me. Like manners. Civility. Distance . “I have a good cab?—”

“Oh no, thanks.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to drink alone. Liam’s drilled the pre-game routine into my soul. No alcohol around athletes the night before a game.”

Bozhe moy.

She gets it. Without me having to explain, without needing reminders or justifications. No teasing, no pushing at the rules. Just…understanding.

Most people wouldn’t even think about it. But Erin does.

“Emma fell during her spin,” Ris chatters happily, completely oblivious to my slow-motion descent into madness, “but Coach says that’s normal when learning new jumps, and?—”

I grunt in response, stabbing my chicken Kiev like it’s personally responsible for this agony.

Erin’s gaze flicks to me, lips curving in faint amusement. Like she knows exactly why I’m unraveling and finds it adorable.

“The food is amazing,” she says warmly. “I’d love to learn how to make this.”

“Papa learned from Babushka,” Ris announces proudly, beaming. “He was terrible at first, but now?—”

“By the way,” I cut in, desperate to think about anything besides Erin in my kitchen, in my space, “there’s a gym in the basement. Full equipment. You’re welcome to use it.”

“Really?” Her eyes light up, excitement sparking in them. “That would be perfect. I won’t have to improvise with my bands while I’m here. You know, playing cello is more physical than most people realize.”

I make the catastrophic mistake of picturing Erin working out in my private space. Skin damp with sweat. Muscles flexing. The way her breath would come faster?—

Fucking hell.

“ Da .” My voice is clipped. Desperate . “Whatever you need. The code is 2019.”

“Papa exercises in the morning,” Ris pipes up helpfully. “Really early. Before I wake up. Or after, when he goes to work.”

And now I’m picturing running into her in the gym at dawn, both of us sweaty, flushed, and?—

I grip my fork tighter, knuckles white, fighting for control. Where the hell is my discipline? My self-restraint?

“I’ll clean up.” Erin stands and gathers plates before I can protest. “Since you cooked. It’ll help me learn the layout.”

I should stop her. Tell her to sit and relax.

But instead, I follow her, caught in her orbit and unable to pull away.

It would be better if I could get out of this kitchen. Make myself stop watching her as if she’s something I want to devour.

But I don’t move.

Instead, I stand there like a damn idiot, arms braced against the counter, watching her load my dishwasher like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

She moves with an ease that unsettles me, like she already belongs in my space. Like she’s always belonged.

It’s too much. Too intimate.

Then she reaches for the top shelf, and her sweater lifts, revealing the softest strip of skin at her waist.

My hands twitch.

I grip the counter harder, forcing my feet to stay planted, forcing my fingers not to reach.

Bozhe moy.

Does she have any idea what she’s doing? That she’s so tempting? How dangerously close I am to snapping?

“Top shelf?” she asks, stretching higher, her voice a little breathless, whether from exertion or?—

I don’t let myself finish the thought.

A grunt is the only response I can manage, because if I speak, if I move, I might do something reckless.

Like drag her against me. Press my lips to the exposed skin taunting me to see if she tastes as sweet as she smells. Lift her onto this counter and?—

Fuck.

I need a cold plunge. A Siberian blizzard. A damn exorcism.

Erin shifts, her hip brushing the edge of the counter, and it’s all I can do to not look. Not track every little movement. I swear to God, the only thing stopping me from losing control is the fact that my daughter hasn’t gone to bed yet .

“Papa!” Ris calls from the living room, her voice sweet and innocent, completely unaware of my slow descent into madness. “I found the chess set! Can we play? You promised to teach me that knight trick!”

I exhale, sharp and uneven, like I’ve just been yanked back from the edge of an abyss.

Erin turns to me, cheeks flushed, hands resting on the counter behind her, and I don’t know if she feels the same thing thrumming in the air between us, but— God help me —I think she does.

“Go,” she says softly, her voice a little hoarse. “I’ve got this.”

I should move. I should step away.

Her breath hitches, and I imagine my name being right there, hovering on her lips.

“Chess,” I manage roughly, taking a step back before I do something reckless, like slide my hands to her waist and pull her against me. “Ris is waiting.”

“Right.” I could swear I saw her shiver. Then I nod, push off the counter, and force myself to walk away.

Because if I stay a second longer, I won’t walk away at all.

Ris is already setting up the chessboard in the living room, her small hands moving the pieces with the confidence of a reigning champion. Behind me, I hear the quiet click of the dishwasher door closing, followed by the faintest, shaky exhale.

I settle onto the sofa beside my daughter, focusing on the board like it holds the key to survival. Chess has always been my refuge—like hockey, it’s a game of precision, strategy, and control. Every move calculated, every decision a step ahead. But tonight, control feels fragile, slipping through my fingers.

Then I hear soft footsteps on hardwood, a whisper of sound that feels like a pulse in my spine.

Erin emerges from the kitchen, curling up in the armchair across from us. Her hair is loose now, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She pulls her knees up, tucking her feet beneath her, and something about the easy way she watches us makes my skin buzz.

I drag my attention back to the game.

“Remember,” I tell Ris, nudging a white pawn forward, “knights are tricky. They move in L-shapes?—”

“You’re really good at this,” Erin says softly, and like a fucking idiot, I look up.

She isn’t watching the board. She’s watching me .

The warmth in her eyes, silent and unreadable, punches through every wall I’ve erected.

“Erin should play too!” Ris announces, practically bouncing on her seat. “Papa can teach you! Here, sit next to him?—”

“Oh, I don’t know how,” Erin starts.

“Papa’s the best teacher,” Ris insists, already shifting pieces to make room. “Please?”

My daughter, the instigator.

Erin hesitates, then unfolds herself from the chair, each step closer winding the tension tighter. When she sinks onto the sofa beside me, her thigh presses against mine—warm, distracting, lethal. Every muscle in my body goes rigid, like I’ve just taken a clean, open-ice hit. Then her gaze flicks down. Lingers. A quick, sharp inhale.

Heat licks up my spine.

She snaps her attention back to the board, but I’ve already seen it. And now I can’t think of a single goddamn move except the one I want to make on her.

“The basics are simple,” I manage, though my brain is very much not focused on chess right now.

She smells like vanilla. Like warmth. Like trouble.

“Each piece moves differently,” I continue, reaching for the queen to demonstrate—just as she does the same.

Our fingers collide.

A sharp jolt shoots up my arm, like static shock, only deeper. She jerks back, but not before I catch the hitch in her breath.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

I should let it go. Should ignore the way her voice sounds softer now, like I’m the only person in the world she’s speaking to.

Instead, I force myself to keep talking. “The queen’s the most powerful piece,” I say, my voice a pained rasp. Like you, my traitorous brain supplies. “She can move in any direction.”

“Like Mama could sing any note?” Ris pipes up.

The question lands like an anvil. The shift in the room is instant—heavier, full of ghosts. I feel Erin tense beside me, but instead of letting the moment close in, she does something unexpected.

“Your mama sang opera, right?” she asks gently. “Did she have a favorite character?”

“Amneris!” Ris beams, instantly perking up. “That’s who I’m named after! From Aida! Papa promised we’ll go see it at the opera someday.”

Erin smiles, something knowing and warm sparking behind her eyes. “I thought you might have been named after the Egyptian princess. A strong character.” She glances at me. “Perfect name for a girl who knows what she wants.”

My throat tightens, pulsing painfully.

Enough.

“Bedtime,” I announce abruptly.

“But Papa!” Ris pouts. “Erin hasn’t learned castling yet! And she needs to help with the bedtime story.”

I clench my jaw. Every part of me is screaming no.

But Erin is already standing, already smiling that soft, wrecking smile. “I’d love to help,” she says, her voice quiet but certain. “If that’s okay?”

No. It’s not okay at all. It’s the opposite of okay.

But before I can argue, Ris is grabbing both our hands, tugging us toward the stairs like she’s orchestrating a love story instead of bedtime.

And for the first time since Elena died, I feel absolutely powerless.

* * *

Bath time is pure hell. Not because Ris fights it—she’s too busy chatting about skating drills and her latest Elephant & Piggie book—but because Erin is sitting on the closed toilet lid, watching.

Every ordinary moment feels like another crack in my armor. The way she hands me a towel before I ask. How she keeps Ris engaged, distracting her from the shampoo with easy chatter. The easy grace with which she fits into this routine, like she belongs here. Like she’s always belonged here.

“Story time!” Ris declares, bouncing onto her bed and patting the mattress on either side of her. “Both of you!”

Der’mo.

The bed is too damn small for this. I hesitate, but Erin’s already sinking onto the other side, crossing her legs beneath her. I lower myself onto the mattress, my body too big for the space, for this situation.

“ Elephant & Piggie !” Ris announces, holding up the book. “I get to be Gerald,” she decides proudly.

“Then I’ll be Piggie.” Erin flips the book open. Her voice is warm, teasing, and when she launches into the silliest, most ridiculous Piggie impression I’ve ever heard, Ris dissolves into giggles.

I swear my heart skips.

“Papa should do the other voices,” Ris demands, looking up at me expectantly.

“Oh no, I don’t?—”

“Please?”

Two sets of eyes. One pleading, the other dancing with amusement.

I sigh, already defeated. “Fine,” I grumble. And before I know it, I’m deepening my voice for the squirrels, adding a nasal whine for the pigeon, watching as Erin’s laughter spills across the bed, quiet and breathless and far too beautiful.

“‘I love my new toy!’“ Ris reads carefully, her small finger tracing each word. “‘Oh no! My new toy is broken!’”

“You’re such a good reader,” Erin praises, her voice full of warmth. Even from across the bed, something about the softness in her expression makes my stomach tighten.

I should not be watching her this closely. I should not notice the way the dim light catches the freckles on her nose, or how she tucks her hair behind her ear absentmindedly, or how she looks at my daughter like she’s the most important person in the world.

It’s familiar. Intimate.

And I want more of it so badly my teeth ache.

By the time Ris drifts off, I’m thoroughly wrecked.

Erin slips off the bed first, careful not to wake her, and I follow, tucking the blanket around my daughter before easing the door closed.

In the hallway, Erin pauses.

“That was nice,” she murmurs. “Storytime. You’re good at this, the dad thing.”

The simple praise knocks the air from my lungs.

I need to step back, put space between us, rebuild my walls before they crumble entirely. But instead, I find myself leaning in, like a man drawn to his own destruction.

“Goodnight, Dmitri.”

She says it too quickly. Like she knows exactly what I was about to do. Like she needs to escape before I actually do it.

Then she disappears behind her door, leaving me standing in the hallway, staring at the wood grain like an idiot.

Like a man realizing he’s completely, utterly fucked.