Chapter 12
Courtney
“I think under the right circumstances,” he says after taking a long time to answer, “I’d like to settle down. But it would have to be with the right woman. The right timing.”
“The right timing? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I just know that my first marriage was a mistake, and I hurt him, so I never want to do that again.”
“Which part?”
“Marry the wrong person. With Jesper… it was comfortable. We were both in exile and ran into each other in a pub in London. He spoke my language, shared my culture… it was easy to fall into bed. And then a routine. Eventually, we got married because it seemed like the next logical step. Just like starting a family. But deep down I knew it wasn’t right.
It wasn’t forever. And I hate myself for hurting him. ”
“But you’re friends now.”
“Yes. Thankfully, he’s a good man. And I think he and Joe are a good match.”
“It’s nice when you find your person, the one who makes you feel whole.” I sound a bit wistful, even to my own ears.
“Have you ever found someone like that?”
I hesitate. “No. Hell, I barely date. Even before the baby. Guys are intimidated by a woman who flies helicopters in and out of war zones and can kick ass with the best of them. Plus, I’m such a tomboy…I think I turn guys off.”
“You don’t turn me off.” The words are soft but loud enough for me to hear, and I blink.
“I… what?”
“I’m just saying you don’t intimidate me. And not to bring up anything ungentlemanly, but you never turned me off. I think you’re beautiful, sexy, and strong. Those are things that turn me on, not off.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she dips her head. “Er, thank you.”
“I’m not trying to embarrass you. I think a lot of men are stupid, too insecure in themselves to know when they’ve found someone special.”
This is the kind of shit he says that confuses me. It’s how I fell into bed with him in the first place. He’s a bit of a romantic, in this amazing blue-eyed package—what red-blooded woman could resist him? Certainly not me.
But I’ve learned a hard lesson for that indulgence—one I can’t repeat.
Falling into bed with Daniil again would be a terrible decision.
“Lennox had a lot of the same trouble. She got lucky when she found Sandor.”
“I thought those two were going to kill each other for a while,” he chuckles. “They are pretty perfect together, though.”
Micah takes that moment to knock his bottle on the floor, and I quickly retrieve it.
“No throwing,” I say gently, wiping his face.
“Ba-ba-ba!” he yells in response.
“You’re loud,” Daniil tells him.
“Ba-ba-ba-ba!”
“He’s not saying Mama yet?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be soon.”
“Can you say Dada, buddy?” Daniil asks playfully.
“Dada.” Micah says it perfectly, like it’s something he’s always done.
Daniil and I are momentarily stunned into silence.
“Did he…” he begins.
“Of course he did,” I say, shaking my head. “Nine months in my belly, five months with no one but me—but one day with you and his first words are Dada.” I roll my eyes even though I’m laughing.
“Good job, little man!” he says, ruffling Micah’s short hair. “I’d give you a cookie or something but that’s probably not allowed.”
“Not yet.” I watch them together and my heart melts a little.
Father and son.
I wasn’t sure this moment would ever come, but now that it’s here I don’t know how I can keep them apart. It’s safer to stay away, no doubt about that, but is it better? I’m starting to wonder.
“What can I do?” Daniil asks as I start clearing the table.
“Keep him entertained while I load the dishwasher.”
“Okay.”
I bring everything to the sink, rinsing as I keep an eye on the two of them.
Daniil has experience as a dad, and steps into the role easily. It’s both heartwarming and heartbreaking, because I truly don’t know where we go from here. Before he knew about his son’s existence, it was easy to keep doing what I was doing.
Everything is different now.
I’m still scared about what his involvement could mean.
I’m still worried he’ll try to take full custody, move him to Limaj—keep him from me.
And I’m absolutely terrified that this will be a complete disaster.
At the same time, I can’t think of a way to tell him he should leave and never come back. Micah may not understand anything yet, but it’s obvious he feels the connection. His easy acceptance of this stranger leaves no doubt that there’s already a bond between them.
I put the leftovers away and then lean against the counter, watching them, my black heart melting a little.
It’s never been about the man, specifically, just his life.
It defines him, which is what makes the distinction more difficult.
Daniil the man is everything I could ever want.
It’s Daniil the prince/Royal Protector who makes me want to run.
But the time for running is over, so now the only option is coming together to decide how to make this work. Because I’m not moving to Limaj and he can’t move here.
“It’s bath time,” I say gently, pushing aside my frustrating thoughts. “Do you want to help?”
“Do you mind?” Daniil glances up. “I’d like to…spend as much time as I can with him until…we decide what we’re going to do.”
“Sure. Will you carry him up to the bathroom?”
“Of course.” He lifts Micah out of the highchair and laughs as Micah grips his shirt. “Easy, little man—Daddy has hair there, unlike your mommy.”
“Da da da da.”
“Little shit,” I whisper so only Daniil can hear me.
He just laughs. “Sorry?”
“You are so not sorry.”
“Not really.” He follows me up the stairs as Micah continues to chirp and gurgle, occasionally throwing in sounds like “da da” or “bum bum.”
I start the bath and Daniil entertains the baby while I gather a clean diaper, pajamas, and the cream I use on his dry skin. By the time I get back to the bathroom, Micah’s in the water, Daniil has rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt and is kneeling next to the tub.
He’s a prince. Honest-to-goodness royalty, as well as a statesman and politician, yet he’s giving his son a bath in my thirty-year-old rented house like he does it every day.
And I know damn well he doesn’t. He doesn’t cook, clean, or run errands.
There’s a full staff at the palace that caters to his every need, and though I’ll concede that he works hard, he lives a life of luxury and comfort.
The scene before me is so out of character for the man I got to know during our time together in Limaj, I’m a bit mesmerized. He’s so strong and capable. Handsome. Smart. Rich. And that could be my life—our life—with him.
Until it blows up in our faces. This is all smoke and mirrors. I know damn well he would never give up his life to live here with us, and there’s no universe where I put our son in the kind of danger Daniil’s life comes with.
No matter how sweet this is, or how good he is with him, I have to stay strong. Realistic. Protecting Micah has to come before anything else—even my momentary romantic fantasies.
“His shampoo is on the right,” I say after a moment. “The green bottle. He doesn’t love water getting in his eyes, so be gentle with that.”
“Of course.” Daniil doesn’t hesitate, confident in his role as father to an infant he’s only known about for a couple of days.
Five minutes later, Micah’s on my bed as Daniil continues our nighttime routine with just a few instructions from me, things that other parents might not do, like the special cream we use for his skin.
Beyond that, he’s competent with the diaper, dressing him, and combing the soft hair on his head that’s going to stick up in the morning no matter what.
“Do you, uh, want to rock him?” I ask. “I give him a bottle and then put him down when he’s almost asleep. I don’t know what you did when your other kids were little but—”
“I’ll do it however you want it done,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to mess up your routine.”
“Okay.” I watch for a moment, but Micah seems confused now, reaching for me when Daniil sinks into the rocking chair.
I’m not sure how to respond. Do I take him, effectively ending Daniil’s bonding moment, or leave them to it? My mother’s heart wants to intervene—I hate seeing him cry—but I know he has to get used to other people. Even if that other person is his father.
Damn, this is hard.
“It’s all right, mate,” Daniil says in a soothing voice, bouncing Micah.
His accent is difficult to pinpoint if you don’t know him.
Born and raised in Limaj, with a Swedish father and a Limaji mother, but educated in England.
He spent most of his exile years in England and Scotland, from what I’ve been told, and now works with so many Americans, his accent is a mish mash of different languages.
His English definitely tilts to the British side, littered with American slang and a spattering of things I don’t always understand.
He told me he speaks six languages—Limaji, Swedish, English—English is his third language!
—French, Russian, and enough Italian to get by.
I’m a little embarrassed that I only speak English with a smattering of Farci since I spent nearly three years in the Middle East.
Slowly, I back out of the room and then press myself against the wall in the hallway.
I spent the last year doing everything in my power to avoid exactly the situation I’m in now. I have to stop romanticizing the man and come up with a practical solution that will serve as some kind of compromise.
Anything less is unacceptable.