Chapter 12
ELLE
That afternoon, I'm halfway through a toe-curling romance I stole from the library downstairs, genuinely surprised to find Nikolai had this in his collection, when Pasha's face pops into the doorway of the living room like a very polite jump scare.
I immediately slam the paperback shut and shove it behind the cushions before the kid sees the cover and can't burn it from his retinas.
"Elle," he says, in that secret-whisper voice kids get when they're about to ask you something monumental but it's always anticlimactic. "Can I come in?"
I pat the space beside me. "You never have to ask. This is your house, bud."
He scurries in, socks sliding on the wood floor, and plops down next to me. My cat walks in behind him like a furry shadow. Sir Isaac stretches across my legs, decides he likes this lap, and goes full starfish.
Pasha reaches out and scratches behind the cat's ears. "I think he's having fun with me," he says. Proud and a little amazed.
"He is," I say. "He's not usually this easy to impress."
He beams. Then goes quiet for a second. "Do you think Papa will let me get a dog next?"
I laugh. "Wow. We're already planning the next hostage?"
Pasha giggles. "It's not a hostage! It's a dog!"
"Same thing, depending on who you ask. But I think we should maybe ease your dad into it. He's still recovering from the cat."
"He hasn't even sneezed."
"I know," I say, rolling my eyes. "It's probably a fake allergy. He just doesn't like being outvoted."
Pasha laughs and leans back against the couch like he plans to stay a while.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask me anything."
He thinks for a second. "What were you like as a kid?"
The question hits harder than I expect. Simple and innocent, but it peels back a layer I usually keep tucked away even from myself.
I keep my voice light. "I was... different. I didn't go to school like you do. I didn't have friends. I didn't even have a pet."
Pasha frowns. "Why not?"
I fiddle with a loose thread on my shorts, trying to explain my life to a child without making it sound as messed up as it actually was.
"My mom was very protective," I say carefully. "She thought the outside world was dangerous, so I stayed inside our building most of the time."
His eyes widen. "That's so sad."
"It was," I admit, trying not to sound too broken about it. "But that's why I like being here. With you, and Sir Isaac, and even your grumpy father."
Pasha considers this deeply, his little face scrunching up as he processes. Then, without warning, he launches himself at me, skinny arms wrapping around my neck in a hug so fierce it nearly knocks me backward.
"I'll be your friend," he declares against my hair. "Your best friend. And you can play with my toys and we can build robots every day."
Someone bring me tissues, chocolate, and maybe a therapist, because this kid just cracked open my cold dead heart like it was a pinata. I press my cheek into his hair and close my eyes, hugging him hard, hoping he can feel how much I mean it when I say he's already the best part of this house.
I pull back, blinking hard because I did not come here today planning to cry in front of an eight-year-old. "Thank you, little bear."
Sir Isaac huffs, relieved to no longer be squished, but stays on my lap.
"I'm serious," Pasha mumbles. "If you didn't have friends before, you do now."
I ruffle his hair. "You're the best person I know."
That night, we sit down for dinner together. Me, Nikolai, and Pasha. Just us. No guards hovering, no staff standing by with trays. Just plates of steaming food on an evening that almost feels normal.
It's a far cry from the stilted, formal meals I endured at my mother's table.
Forced to dress appropriately in her presence, hair and face done up as if I had anywhere to go.
This dining room is still absurdly large, with its high ceiling and a chandelier that screams be impressed.
But somehow, Pasha's presence makes it feel less like a mausoleum and more like a home.
Pasha dives into a retelling of the robot project like it's breaking news.
"She helped me build it," he says, pointing at me. "And it actually picked up the ball without falling over! It's got a gripper arm and everything." He turns to Nikolai with the gravity of a press secretary. "She's not just a cat lady. She's good at robots too."
I place a hand to my chest. "Thank you. I accept this award with deep humility and a lot of pride."
Nikolai's lips twitch. That almost-smile again. It's becoming his signature move around us, like he's trying not to show too much but can't help the reaction.
"He's brilliant," I say, turning to Nikolai. "You do know that, right?"
"I do." Voice low but sincere. "He's always been like this. Since he could hold a screwdriver."
I look between the two of them. This tall, quiet man with sharp blue eyes and this bright, soft-hearted boy who still carries some of that guardedness but lights up when he's seen.
"You should be proud of him," I say gently. "He's not just smart. He's kind. Curious. He's exceptional."
Nikolai's eyes meet mine. Something passes between us, unreadable but warm. He doesn't say more. Just gives a small nod, like the words are sitting heavy in his chest and he doesn't know yet if it's safe to say them out loud.
To me.
That's okay. I'm getting used to the way he communicates, because beneath the grunts and the silence is solid gold. It's in the pauses. The eye contact. The way he pours Pasha's juice without being asked. The way he listens when I speak, even when he pretends not to.
Halfway through dinner, his phone buzzes on the table.
He glances at the screen and something shifts in his face, a shadow crossing those blue eyes like a cloud passing over a cold lake.
He silences it without answering and tucks it in his pocket, but the set of his jaw stays tight for a moment longer than it should.
I don't ask. He doesn't explain. But the reminder is there, quiet as a knife slipped back into a sheath: this world doesn't stop being dangerous just because dinner feels normal.
We finish eating without any of the usual awkwardness that's followed us since the wedding night.
The silence, when it comes, isn't uncomfortable.
It's just quiet.
The kind that lets things breathe.
Pasha asks for a second helping of dessert. Nikolai agrees with a nod. I help Pasha serve himself while Nikolai pours a small glass of whiskey.
I think, for a moment, about asking the question that's been burning through me all day.
Where is Pasha's mother? What happened to her? The questions pile up like kindling, but Pasha is right there, and something tells me this isn't a conversation for little ears.
Later, I promise myself. When it's just us.
Pasha yawns hugely, trying to hide it behind his hand. Nikolai notices immediately.
"Bedtime," he announces.
"But Papa..."
"The robots will still be there tomorrow." Nikolai rises from his chair. "And Elle isn't going anywhere."
Pasha turns to me with pleading eyes. "Will you come say goodnight? And check on Sir Isaac?"
"Of course," I say, my heart doing that strange squeezing thing again.
As we all stand to leave, Nikolai's hand brushes mine.
Barely a second. Probably accidental. But my brain lights up like someone plugged me into a wall socket, and suddenly I'm hyper-aware of everything: the shape of his fingers, the ink on his knuckles, the heat of his skin, the fact that in just a few hours I'll be sleeping in his room.
His bed. His space. His rules. And me, casually trying not to die of anticipation.
God help me. I need a paper bag and a sedative.