Chapter 13
PENELOPE
“I’m sorry you have to play the role of his father for the next three months,” I said lightly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I tried to frame it as a tease, but my eyes betrayed me.
I watched his face closely, searching for any flicker of discomfort, any instinctive rejection of the boy who shared his blood—though he didn’t know it yet.
Dmitri didn’t scoff. Didn’t smirk.
Instead, something in him softened.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible—the easing of his jaw, the way his gaze drifted somewhere distant as if he were picturing Vanya’s face. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it.
“I would be honored to be his father for a lifetime.”
The words hit me harder than any shout ever could.
“He’s sharp,” Dmitri continued, eyes back on mine now, intent and thoughtful.
“Smarter than most children twice his age. Curious. Fearless when he needs to be.” A pause.
“But kind. That’s the part that stays with you.
He listens when you speak—really listens.
And the way he already positions himself in front of you when he senses tension?
” His mouth curved slightly. “That’s instinct.
You don’t teach that. That’s who he is.”
My chest tightened painfully. I swallowed, afraid if I spoke my voice would break. He was describing his own son without knowing it—his mind, his protectiveness, his Volkov steel wrapped in compassion.
I nodded once, silently, a quiet, aching gratitude blooming despite every scar he’d left on me.
Dmitri lifted a hand then, fingers brushing beneath my chin, gently tipping my face upward. The gesture was uncharacteristically tender. Moonlight shimmered across the water, turning his eyes into molten silver.
“You’re less tense than you were when you arrived,” he observed, his thumb tracing the faint line of my jaw. “Is it because you’re realizing I already admire your son?”
“I wouldn’t want my child raised in a hostile environment,” I said evenly, forcing steadiness into my voice. “He deserves peace. Stability. Safety.”
His gaze sharpened—not with threat, but with resolve.
“He’ll have all of that here. From me.” A beat.
“I don’t know how to be a father, Pen. My world isn’t gentle.
I solve problems with leverage and violence.
But for him...” He hesitated, as if the admission cost him something. “For him, I’d learn.”
His eyes searched mine. “Will you teach me?”
The vulnerability in that single question cracked something open inside me. I dropped my gaze, heat creeping into my cheeks, emotions tangling dangerously.
“I can teach you,” I whispered.
His mouth softened into something close to a smile. He tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering longer than necessary. Leaning closer, he studied my face with quiet intensity.
“You are so beautiful, Pen.”
Instinct kicked in—old armor snapping back into place. I tilted my head, a wry smirk tugging at my lips. “I suppose it helps that I share such a striking resemblance to your late wife.”
He didn’t deny it. Didn’t deflect.
“I won’t insult you by pretending otherwise,” he said simply. “You do.”
The honesty lingered between us, heavy and intimate.
Then, without warning, he shifted. One arm slid beneath my knees, the other around my back, and suddenly I was lifted from the water. I gasped softly as he carried me to the pool’s edge, setting me down with surprising gentleness before pulling himself out beside me.
Water streamed down his body in silver rivulets, muscles flexing as he straightened.
I tried—failed—not to look. His arousal was unmistakable, bold even in the cool night air.
Heat rushed to my face, and I folded my arms around myself as a shiver ran through me, my soaked clothes clinging uncomfortably.
Dmitri reached for a thick towel, wrapping it low around his hips before turning back to me. His gaze swept over me, assessing, protective.
“Come,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “You’re freezing. You can’t possibly think I’d let you sleep beside me in wet jeans and a sweater.”
Before I could argue, he lifted me again, cradling me against his chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world. My hands went instinctively to his shoulders, my face close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, to see droplets clinging to his lashes.
He carried me through the corridors, bare feet silent on marble, the estate hushed around us.
Nestled against him, my pulse finally slowed enough for reason to return.
“Tomorrow,” I said quietly, breaking the silence. “At the party... if I’m speaking to Antonio Ferraro—trying to sway him to your side—what if someone tries to hurt me? The Orlovs already despise me. The Morozovs too. They won’t hesitate.”
He didn’t slow his stride.
Instead, his arms tightened almost imperceptibly around me.
“Let them try,” Dmitri said, voice low and lethal. “You will not take a single step tomorrow without eyes on you. If anyone so much as raises their voice in your direction, they answer to me.”
He glanced down at me, gaze unwavering.
“And if anyone forgets whose wife you are,” he added softly, “I will remind them.”
His grip tightened around me, possessive and unyielding.
“Anyone who lays a finger on you dies,” he growled, voice low and absolute.
“Slowly. Painfully. I will burn their world to ash before they touch a hair on your head. No harm comes to you, Pen—not while I’m breathing.
I will stand between you and every bullet, every blade, every threat this lake can muster.
You are under my roof, under my name. That makes you mine to protect. With my life, if it comes to it.”
The ferocity in his voice sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air.
Every word cut through the tension that had coiled inside me for days, grounding me in a brutal certainty: he meant it.
He would fight to the last breath for me and Vanya.
I believed him. Every word, every syllable, was carved in steel.
We were almost at the bedroom when a door to our left slammed open with a crash, startling me.
“Help... help me, Dmitri! Please!”
The voice was high, frantic, laced with exaggerated fear. Seraphina.
Dmitri’s entire body snapped into alert, the arm around me loosening only enough for him to pivot. In an instant, he was in front of her, dropping to one knee with precision and urgency. His hand rose, gently lifting her chin to assess the blood streaking across her temple.
I froze, my stomach knotting with a mix of fury and disbelief.
Every instinct urged me forward—to pull Seraphina from his arms, to erase her from his skin—anything to reclaim the intimacy that wasn’t mine to take.
But I stayed rooted, fists clenched at my sides, jaw tight.
The sight of him bending for her, hands brushing her skin with care, was a dagger I couldn’t remove.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked, calm but commanding, eyes scanning her face and neck with exacting focus.
“I—I fell from the bed,” she stammered, voice trembling, tears mingling with the blood. “I’m not used to sleeping alone. I had a nightmare and... I rolled off. It hurts so much.”
Dmitri’s jaw tightened, the hand that had held her chin now checking her arms for bruises. He pulled out his phone with precise efficiency. “Giovanni,” he barked the moment the line connected. “Seraphina’s room. Now. There’s been an incident.”
Before he could hang up, she launched herself at him, clinging desperately around his neck. Blood smeared across his chest as her small body pressed against him, her face hidden against his skin. My chest tightened painfully, jealousy flaring hotter than fear or reason.
Every instinct screamed to shove her away, to erase the sight of him comforting another woman.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look elsewhere, nails digging into my palms until the pain grounded me.
“I was so scared, Dmitri,” she whimpered, voice quivering with calculated vulnerability. “Forgive me for bothering you.”
He allowed the embrace for a brief heartbeat, one hand settling lightly on her back in reassurance, but there was no softness in his eyes—just measured control. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Giovanni was approaching.
“I’m scared,” Seraphina repeated, clinging harder, her nails digging into the muscles of his shoulder. Her gaze flicked toward me over his arm—sharp, triumphant, smug. Every glance screamed, look what I can do.
Dmitri’s voice was steel and velvet at once. “It’s all right. Giovanni will see to you.”
He disentangled himself slowly, stepping back so that his presence remained commanding but non-invasive. Seraphina stumbled slightly, unsteady, and he caught her with one arm, eyes sharp enough to remind her he was not to be toyed with.
Giovanni arrived in a rush, taking in the scene with a single, practiced glance. He didn’t panic, didn’t question. Kneeling beside her, he murmured reassurances and gently probed the cut on her temple, already taking control.
I stepped a pace back, letting him handle it, my chest still burning with indignation.
Seraphina’s trembling eased slightly under Giovanni’s scrutiny, but I could feel her eyes on me, the unspoken accusation and challenge searing across the room. Dmitri remained calm, calculating, the storm of his anger and power barely restrained as he watched Giovanni tend to her.
A hand settled on my waist—Dmitri’s—and I flinched violently, the instinctual recoil belying the longing I would never admit even to myself.
“Don’t touch me,” I snapped before I could stop myself, voice sharp as ice. Every syllable was a blade, cutting through the lingering warmth of his nearness.