Chapter Six
Aleksei
The car glides to a stop at the entrance of Blackwood Manor.
I turn off the engine and sit motionless for a moment, Dr. Malhotra’s words about Bobik echoing in my mind.
My son’s diagnosis hangs over me like a dark shroud. Experimental surgery. Slim chance of success. And I put him through that. It doesn’t matter that he’d begged to do it. I am the parent. I have the final say.
I sink back into my seat, forcing myself to breathe slowly through clenched teeth. My son deserves better than coin-flip odds. The Bentley’s leather seat creaks as I shift, the silence of the car amplifying the storm in my head.
The doctor’s final words keep replaying in my mind: “We will get him up and running, Mr. Tarasov. Trust me.” But trust isn’t something that comes easily to me.
I push the thoughts away. Right now, I need to focus on Stella.
Circling around to her door, I open it smoothly and look down into the car. She looks up at me, those green eyes that once flashed with desire and rage now clouded with confusion. My jaw tightens. I’m a stranger to her now— a blessing in disguise, maybe.
“We’re here,” I say, extending my hand.
She hesitates before taking it, her fingers cool against my palm. As she steps out, her gaze travels up the imposing facade of the manor. Nothing in her expression suggests recognition.
I watch her carefully, noting how she pulls her hand away a moment too quickly. That instinctive withdrawal from my touch— it’s irritating. This woman who once knew every inch of my body now shrinks from the barest contact.
The wind catches her chestnut hair, blowing strands across her face.
I resist the urge to brush them away. Such a gesture was never one we shared easily— I’d made sure of that, but now it’s something I want to do.
I don’t. Instead, I straighten my shoulders and step back, giving her space to take in my home in all its cold, symmetrical glory.
“This is where we live?” she asks, her voice small.
“Yes. Blackwood Manor.” I watch her face carefully for any flicker of memory. Nothing.
Something instinctive stirs within me as a thought takes hold— this could be a second chance. Before, she looked at me with apprehension. I was the man who’d forced her into my world to bear my child. Now, that slate is wiped clean. We can start over.
“Let me show you around,” I say, guiding her toward the entrance.
We move through the grand foyer, my steps measured and deliberate.
I maintain perfect composure despite the storm inside me— my son’s failed operation, Stella’s memory loss, the opportunity it presents.
My hand hovers near the small of her back without touching her, maintaining the illusion of distance while keeping her within my orbit.
“This is the main house,” I explain as we walk. “There are two wings— the Right Wing, where my personal quarters are, and the Left Wing, where you’ve been staying.”
“We don’t stay together?” She glances at me and then looks away, her cheeks turning pink.
Blyad.
This is something I hadn’t considered. Why would a couple live in separate parts of a house like this?
“My business has me keeping odd hours,” I tell her, improvising. “And you need your rest. For the baby.” I glance down. It’s a sketchy explanation but it will have to do.
She nods, absorbing the information without comment.
Her eyes drift over the artwork, the furniture, searching for something familiar and finding nothing.
I watch her carefully, trying to read her thoughts as she takes in the opulence around us.
The way her gaze lingers on certain pieces— the Russian artwork, the antique grandfather clock— tells me she’s processing more than she lets on.
“It’s beautiful,” she says finally, her voice soft with what might be awe or apprehension. I can’t quite tell which.
“I’m glad you think so.” The words come out more sincere than I expected. For some reason, her approval matters, which bothers me. I shouldn’t care what she thinks of my home, yet I find myself studying her face for any hint of genuine appreciation.
I lead her through the manor, pointing out rooms and spaces she should know intimately by now.
The kitchen where I once prepared a meal for her, watching her eyes widen in surprise that a man like me could handle a knife for something other than violence.
The library where I’ve built up a small selection of science books for her and Bobik, texts on neuroscience and experimental treatments that she devoured in days.
The pool where I’ve seen her swim, her body gliding through water like she belongs there, the sunlight catching the droplets on her skin in ways that made my chest tighten.
Each memory cuts deeper than the last— they’re mine alone now.
Alone. The weight of them settles in my gut like stones, reminders of moments I didn’t appreciate enough when they were happening.
Blyad , when did I become this sentimental?
This weak? Yet I can’t stop the flood of images, each one more vivid than the last.
When we reach her bedroom door, I pause.
Images flash through my mind— Stella beneath me, her hair spread across the pillows, her nails digging into my back.
Stella reading by the window, her face peaceful in the morning light.
The scent of her skin after a shower, that mixture of vanilla and sweet woman that I’ve found myself seeking in empty rooms. The sound of her laughter— rare at first, then more frequent as she settled into life at Blackwood.
The way she looks at Bobik, with such genuine care that it makes something in my chest constrict painfully.
I remember her curled up in my bed, vulnerable in sleep, her guard completely down. The thought sends a surge of possessiveness through me that’s becoming dangerously familiar.
I push the door open. “This is your room.”
She steps inside, her movements hesitant. Her eyes scan the space— the king-sized bed with its silk sheets, the antique dresser, the bookshelves filled with science volumes she selected herself.
“It feels… like I should remember it, but I don’t,” she mumbles.
A spike of something dangerous runs through me— relief mingled with guilt. Her confusion means my secrets remain safe. She doesn’t know my role in her parents’ deaths. Doesn’t realize how much she should hate me for what I’d done. Perhaps I’ll carry my guilt to my grave.
I watch as she explores the room, running her fingers over unfamiliar possessions. Every object holds a story she’s forgotten— a story that ultimately paints me as the villain.
“You should rest,” I say, noticing the fatigue in her eyes, the slight droop of her shoulders. “The doctor said not to overwhelm you with too much at once.” My voice sounds gentler than I’m used to, a weakness I rarely allow myself to show.
She nods, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “I am tired.” Her fingers curl into the silk sheets— sheets I specifically ordered because I wanted her to come home to complete comfort. Another strange gesture I’d never expect from myself.
“There are clothes in the closet. Bathroom is through there.” I point to a door on the right, watching how her gaze follows my gesture.
There’s a wariness when she watches me that I wish wasn’t there.
“If you need anything, just press the intercom button by the bed. Someone will always answer.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears— too soft, too concerned.
She looks up at me, her expression a mixture of gratitude and caution. Her eyes search mine, looking for something I’m not sure I can give her. “Thank you.”
I nod and turn to leave, my hand lingering on the doorknob.
“I’ll check on you later.” I hesitate, fighting the urge to say more, to stay longer. Instead, I step into the hallway, allowing myself one last glance at her sitting on the edge of the bed before I close the door behind me.
You’re getting fucking soft, Tarasov.
I shake myself to get rid of the unfamiliar feeling.
When I return an hour later with a tray of food, she’s asleep. The medication they prescribed at the hospital has knocked her out, her breathing deep and even. I set the tray down silently and approach the bed.
She looks peaceful in sleep, though her brow is slightly furrowed, as if her body remembers what her mind cannot. My fingers hover near her face, almost brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, but I pull back. Even unconscious, she seems to sense my presence, shifting slightly away.
“ Tak krasivo. ” For one unguarded moment, I allow my expression to soften into something few have ever witnessed— vulnerability, tenderness, regret. Then the mask slides back into place.
“Aleksei?” Diana’s voice in the hallway startles me. I move away from the bed and step outside, pulling the door nearly closed behind me.
My sister stands in the corridor, her posture rigid as always. Her eyes flick to the bedroom door, then back to me.
“How’s she doing?” Diana asks.
“Resting. The medication makes her drowsy.”
“And her memory?”
“Still gone. Dr. Malhotra still says it should be temporary.”
Diana nods, processing this information with her typical efficiency. “I’ve prepared Bobik’s rooms for when he returns.”
“ Khoroshiy . Good.”
“How is he?” she asks, her voice softening slightly. “Did the doctor give any more updates?”
I feel my expression harden. “He’ll be okay.”
The answer is deliberately vague, and Diana knows better than to press. We’ve communicated this way since childhood— saying more with silence than words.
“I’ll check on Stella later,” Diana says, turning to leave. “Let me know if she needs anything.”
As she walks away, I stand alone in the corridor. My fingers drum against my thigh in a rare display of agitation.
I eventually retreat to my office and pour myself two fingers of vodka, but don’t drink immediately. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the glass cabinet— the face of the man responsible for the death of Stella’s father, and indirectly responsible for the death of her mother.
Indirectly.
As if that makes a fucking difference.
The man who now harbors their daughter under his roof. The man who wants her to fall in love with him.
The contradiction doesn’t trouble me as much as it should. Nor does this revelation.
Love.
It’s not something I ever saw in my future.
I down the vodka in one swallow, feeling it burn a path down my throat. Some secrets will stay buried— not just for my protection, but for hers. For our child’s. For this new beginning.
My reflection shows a slight, dangerous smile forming. Perhaps Fate has granted me something I never deserved: a clean slate with the woman who never knew I’d already stained it with blood.
She must never, ever know what I’ve done. She doesn’t have to know the reason, either— now that her father is dead, there is no point in telling her Tomas Larkin caused Bobik’s condition.
Some things are better kept secret forever.