Chapter 16
AMALIE
“What are you making?”
It’s just after lunch and Sasha and I are in the art room.
I’ve grown to love this space. The rest of the mansion is vast and cold, but this room is so warm and inviting.
It’s our little world where we can work and have fun.
Not to mention a little bit of a refuge from the confusion Roman and the rest of the job represent.
Sasha and I are working with clay. I’m rolling a bit between my palms, enjoying the cool sensation against my skin.
He shrugs, eyes down. “Something.”
I smile. “That’s a good place to start.”
He glances up at me for a moment with those big, adorable eyes, then goes back to work. It’s not long before his tongue is peeking out between his lips—Sasha’s sign that he’s in the zone.
I try to return to my project, but my thoughts are all wound up, my mind tangled in knots.
I’m conflicted. About Roman. About the danger he represents.
And at how quickly this job has stopped feeling like a temporary gig.
It’s been just over a week since starting, and already this place feels like home.
But it isn’t. For all I know, Roman could tell me to hit the road once the two months are up. I shouldn’t get too comfortable.
I reach for my coffee, realizing my mug is empty. The sudden need to stretch my legs hits me.
“I’m going to get more coffee,” I say to Sasha. “You cool here for a few minutes, buddy?”
He nods. “Yeah. Just working on this.”
I wipe my hands, then ruffle his hair before getting up.
As I leave, I nod to Andrei, who’s seated across the hall with his copy of the Tribune—a familiar sight that’s growing on me.
Andrei peers over the paper. I waggle my mug at him, letting him know without words where I’m going.
He nods, folding the paper and setting it on his lap to give his full attention to Sasha while I’m gone.
I head down to the kitchen and straight to the espresso machine.
I stand at the window, my eyes on the white expanse of the backyard as the machine works.
My thoughts drift to Kyle. I want to talk to him, to make sure he’s alright.
But that’s not an option right now. Besides, I’m not even sure I’d be able to get a message to him at this point.
After topping my espresso off with a little almond milk, I head back up to the art room.
“Alright, dude,” I say, going over to the table and taking my seat. “What’ve you got?”
Sasha says nothing, instead pushing the object toward me. It takes me a second to understand what I’m looking at, and when I do, I gasp.
It’s a necklace. Round beads strung together with a thin piece of twine he must’ve found in the craft box. One of the beads is bigger than the others and is inscribed with a little loopy design—likely with a toothpick.
“Sasha, this is gorgeous.”
“It’s for you,” he says, his voice quiet and shy, like he’s worried about whether or not I like it.
My heart squeezes. “For me?”
He nods. “Because I like you. And I want you to stay.”
I’m totally devastated in the best way possible. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
I take it carefully when he hands it to me, like it’s a rare gem.
The clay is still cool and soft. Up close, I can see the little imperfections that make it clear he’s still figuring out how to work with this new medium.
But all the little flaws make me love it even more; they are reminders of his tiny hands hard at work making something just for me.
“Sasha, this is the nicest gift I’ve ever gotten.”
His eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really. I’m going to try it on, then we need to set it in the oven. I’m keeping it forever. But I want to see how it looks on me first.” Carefully, I slip on the necklace, making sure not to disturb the clay. “What do you think?”
He nods, pleased. “I think it’s good. But the next one will be better.”
The air changes a bit. Over my shoulder, I spot Andrei, the paper lowered. He’s watching us, taking in what’s happening. When our eyes meet, he nods once, the faintest whisper of a smile forming on his lips. It vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, the paper moved back in front of his face.
Sasha beams, very pleased with himself. “I want to make a little dish for Papa to put his watch in,” he says. “And we can put that in the oven with the necklace, okay?”
“Sounds great.”
I watch Sasha work, kneading clay with his usual seriousness.
A few minutes later, Roman’s familiar presence fills the doorway. I don’t look up right away. I don’t have to. I can feel him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.
I glance up at him, surprised and a little confused. “Didn’t have to do what?”
“Put it on,” he says, nodding toward the necklace.
I touch it without thinking. I wonder if he thinks I’m only being nice. “Of course I did.”
Roman’s gaze moves from the necklace to Sasha, who’s so in the zone he doesn’t even notice his papa is at the door. I rise slowly, stepping over to Roman and giving Sasha space to work. When I get closer, Roman’s eyes move back to the necklace.
“Did you help him with that?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Well, I taught him the basics. But turns out he’s good at more than just drawing.”
Roman’s expression is thoughtful, as if he’s adding that to his mental filing cabinet. “He’s never done that before.”
“Worked with clay? Yeah, that’s what he said. I was surprised at how quickly he took to it.”
He shakes his head. “No, not that. He’s never opened up in that way.”
I swallow, giving his words a second to settle. “He’s a sweet kid who just needs to feel safe.”
Roman’s jaw tightens. “You make him feel that way. Safe.”
The word settles between us.
“I’m impressed,” he says after a moment. “Not many people earn his affection. And even fewer earn Andrei’s.”
“He kind of smiled at me.”
Roman chuckles. “You’ve passed a few important tests, I see.”
Sasha looks up, holding his clay creation proudly. “Papa, look!”
Roman walks to the table and crouches beside him, this huge, powerful man making himself small next to his boy. “That’s very good,” he says. And I can tell he means it.
I watch them, heads bent down together as Sasha explains his creation.
Something blooms in my chest. This isn’t just a job anymore. I don’t know what it is, to be honest.
When Roman stands and looks at me again, his expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it.
“Thank you,” he says simply.