Chapter Nineteen - Hannah
The weeks blur into one another in the vast, gilded halls of the mansion, but something is changing. Not just in the way my body moves slower now, my hand instinctively cradling the gentle swell of my belly as I walk, but in the way my thoughts linger—on him.
Makar.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s infuriating, this pull he has over me. He’s everything I should hate: controlling, cold, ruthless. Yet, against all reason, I find myself drawn to him. His voice, his touch, even his rare moments of gentleness… they haunt me, creeping into my mind when I least expect it.
At night, I replay the moments when his guard slips, the way his hands cradle me as though I might break, the way his eyes darken with something deeper when he looks at me. It leaves me aching, restless, craving something I can’t name but know only he can give.
That terrifies me.
I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to want him.
My hand rests on my stomach as I wander the mansion aimlessly, trying to escape my own thoughts. The baby moves faintly, a reminder of the new life growing inside me, and I smile despite myself.
It’s in this distracted state that I stumble upon a room I haven’t noticed before. The door is slightly ajar, and curiosity pulls me forward.
Pushing it open, I step inside and immediately feel like I’ve entered a different world. The space is smaller than most of the rooms in the house, cozier, the walls lined with shelves filled with books and a few carefully arranged objects.
A collection of photographs catches my eye, drawing me closer.
I lean in, studying the images. There’s one of Makar, younger but unmistakable, standing in front of what looks like the same mansion, though it’s brighter, livelier in the picture. He’s wearing a crisp button-down shirt, his expression serious even as a boy, though there’s a faint hint of mischief in his eyes.
I chuckle softly, my fingers brushing over the edge of the frame. He looks… cute. It’s strange to think of him as anything other than the stoic, commanding man he is now, but this picture tells a different story.
Beside him is another boy, younger, grinning wide and full of life. His arm is slung around Makar’s shoulders, and the resemblance is clear—the same messy dark hair, strong nose and full lips. They’re brothers.
Anatoly.
I’ve heard the name mentioned in hushed tones around the house, though never from Makar himself. The boy’s smile is infectious, his energy practically leaping off the photograph. It makes my heart ache, imagining the bond they must have shared, and the pain of losing it.
Will our child smile like that? Will they have Makar’s piercing blue eyes or my brown ones?
The thought startles me, and I step back, my hand instinctively moving to my belly. I close my eyes, trying to picture what our baby will look like, who they’ll take after.
The idea of seeing Makar’s features mirrored in our child stirs something deep inside me—a warmth I don’t know how to explain.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. I’m not supposed to feel this way. I’m supposed to hate him, not wonder if his smile will be the one our child inherits.
I can’t stop myself.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance toward the door, half expecting Makar to appear. The idea of him finding me here, surrounded by pieces of his past, makes my heart race, though I’m not sure why.
The footsteps fade away, leaving the hallway quiet once more. I let out a slow breath, the tension in my chest easing as I lean against the doorframe. My thoughts are still tangled in the image of Makar as a boy, the serious set of his face, and the bright grin of the younger boy beside him.
A soft voice pulls me from my reverie. “You found Anatoly’s room.”
I turn to see Vera standing a few feet away, her kind eyes watching me carefully. She approaches slowly, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression a mix of nostalgia and sadness.
“His room?” I ask, glancing back toward the photographs.
Vera nods, stepping closer to peer inside the room. “That’s what we used to call this place. It was Anatoly’s favorite spot in the house. He loved to read and collect things—little trinkets he found interesting. Makar kept it the way it was after….” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“After what?” I ask gently, though I already have an idea.
“After Anatoly was killed,” Vera says softly, her voice heavy with emotion. “He was so young. Too young.”
My stomach twists at her words, my hand instinctively moving to my belly. “What happened?”
Vera hesitates, her fingers brushing over the edge of the doorframe. “A rival faction,” she finally says. “They wanted to send a message. Anatoly was innocent, but that didn’t matter to them.”
The weight of her words settles over me like a blanket, suffocating and unbearable. I glance back at the photograph, at the boy who’d been so full of life, and my heart aches.
“It changed Makar,” Vera continues, her voice quieter now. “He was never the same after that. He’d always been serious, responsible, but after Anatoly… he became cold. Ruthless. It was his way of protecting himself—and everyone else.”
I swallow hard, my thoughts racing. This is why he is the way he is. The rules, the control, the need to shield himself from anything and anyone that might hurt him. It’s not just about power; it’s about survival.
“He doesn’t talk about him,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.
Vera shakes her head. “No. It’s too painful for him. Everything he does, everything he’s built—it’s because of Anatoly. To make sure nothing like that happens again.”
Her words resonate, and for the first time, I see Makar in a different light. He’s not just a man hardened by power and violence; he’s a man shaped by loss, by grief so deep it turned him into the cold, impenetrable figure he is today.
My hand lingers on my stomach as I glance back at the photograph. Will our child bring him some of the joy he lost? Will they help him find the part of himself he’s buried so deeply?
I take a deep breath, pushing the thoughts aside as a faint discomfort ripples through my lower abdomen. It’s subtle, more an ache than a pain, but enough to make me pause.
Vera notices immediately. “Are you all right?” she asks, concern etching her features.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, though my hand instinctively presses against my belly. “It’s just… a little discomfort. Probably nothing.”
“Still,” Vera says firmly, stepping closer, “you should rest. The baby’s growing quickly now. You need to take care of yourself.”
I nod, though the ache lingers, a faint reminder of how much has changed. I glance at Vera, her presence comforting, and offer a small smile. “Thank you, Vera. For telling me about Anatoly, and for everything else you do.”
Her expression softens, and she places a gentle hand on my arm. “It’s my pleasure, dear. You’re part of this family now.”
Her words make me chuckle softly, and I nod again before turning to leave the room. As I walk back to my own space, the discomfort fades, but my thoughts remain tangled in everything I’ve learned.
As I step away from the door to Anatoly’s room, Vera falls into step beside me, her quiet presence comforting in the otherwise silent hallway. The mansion feels too large at times, too cold and intimidating, but Vera has a way of softening its edges.
She glances at me, her brow furrowing slightly. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
I nod, though my hand instinctively moves to rest on my stomach again. “I think so. It was just a little discomfort.”
“Even small things matter,” she says gently. “This is your first, isn’t it?”
I smile faintly. “It is. I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.”
She chuckles, the sound warm and motherly. “No one does at first. The first child teaches you as much as you teach them.”
Her words are kind, but they carry a weight I can’t ignore. “You have children?” I ask, glancing at her as we walk.
Her face lights up, and there’s a spark of pride in her eyes. “Two. A boy and a girl. They’re practically adults now—late teens. They’re my world.”
I can’t help but smile at the way her tone softens when she talks about them. “Are they like you?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” she says with a laugh. “My daughter, Alina, is fiercely independent. She’s got a fire in her that reminds me of you, actually. Always questioning, always challenging.”
I raise an eyebrow at that. “Is that your polite way of saying I’m difficult?”
She grins. “Not at all. It’s a good thing to have fire. Life isn’t always kind, and it helps to be strong. Alina reminds me of that every day.”
“Your son?”
“Markus,” she says, her voice softening further. “He’s quieter. Thoughtful. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s always worth listening to.”
I can hear the love in her voice, the unshakable bond she has with her children, and it tugs at something inside me. I glance down at my own growing belly, wondering if I’ll ever feel that same connection.
“They sound wonderful,” I say honestly.
“They are,” Vera agrees. “They’ve taught me so much. Parenting isn’t just about guiding them—it’s about learning from them too. You’ll see. This little one of yours will change you in ways you can’t imagine.”
Her words settle over me, heavy but comforting, and I find myself asking, “Did you always want children?”
“I did,” she says with a nod. “Still, I was terrified too. I wondered if I’d be enough for them, if I’d make the right choices. Do you know what? I still wonder that sometimes. Love has a way of carrying you through.”
Love. The word lingers in my mind, bringing with it a wave of uncertainty.
As we reach the door to my room, Vera stops, turning to face me fully. “You’ll be a good mother, Hannah,” she says, her tone full of quiet conviction.
I blink, caught off guard by the certainty in her voice. “You don’t know that,” I say softly.
“Oh, but I do,” she replies, a gentle smile curving her lips. “I’ve seen the way you care, the way you think about this child already. That’s the most important part.”
I swallow hard, emotion welling up in my throat. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She reaches out, placing a hand on my arm. “You’re not alone, dear. Remember that. And if you ever need advice—or just someone to talk to—I’m here.”
Her kindness is overwhelming, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. All I can do is nod, my chest tightening with gratitude.
As Vera steps away, leaving me at the door to my room, I feel a little less lost. Her words echo in my mind as I step inside, closing the door behind me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hand resting on my stomach, and let out a slow breath.