27. Kirill
Kirill
Istand at the edge of Violet’s bed as a Bratva doctor I trust presses the stethoscope to her small chest.
My daughter’s cheeks are flushed, her curls damp at the temples. Her rapidly developing cough carves a hole into my chest. Without her vibrance, she looks extra tiny beneath the blankets.
Violet has had coughs before. Fevers. I’ve been told they are common for children, yet my visceral protection of her makes any virus my new enemy.
Every cold came with a dose of guilt. I know how Sandrine feels, and I ache for her. She’s blaming herself as I’d done for five years. She paces on the other side of the bed, her face as red as Violet’s. I swear she doesn’t take a breath unless Violet does.
“Only a slightly elevated temperature,” the doctor reports. “Just her body fighting off a low-grade fever. Keep her hydrated, rotate fever reducers, and monitor her throughout the night.”
Watching the doctor with absolute focus, I nod, as I’d done through other visits. But this one is different. I’m not alone in her care anymore.
“Thank you, doctor.” Sandrine sits next to Violet and smooths damp hair from her little forehead with a tenderness that looks instinctive. “You’re okay, sweet girl.”
“If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.” The doctor gathers his things and approaches me. “Pakhan. Madam.” He leaves, his footsteps creaking down the hallway.
I step forward. “Do you want some soup, solnyshko?”
“No,” Violet answers, snuggling her favorite pink dinosaur.
Sandrine glances up at me with a flicker of uncertainty, like she’s bracing for more of my wrath.
The one thought I’ve refused to say out loud rushes through my mind. Did Sandrine leave us because of me? Because she saw too much of who I really was and couldn’t handle it? And I’ll never know for sure unless her memory returns.
Which isn’t likely.
“Get some rest,” I say to Violet. “I’ll bring you some soup later. You must eat something.”
“Okay, Daddy.” She yawns and stifles a cough. “Mommy?”
We both go still as Sandrine looks down at our daughter. “Yes, sweetie?”
“I still had fun today.” She brings the cover up to her chin. “But I was really cold. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want our fun to end.” She frowns. “What if you have to go away again?”
That’s a knife in the chest.
“Today won’t be the only time we can play like that.” She strokes Violet’s leg over the blanket. “When I was little, my mother would play in the snow with my sister and me. We’d get cold. Go inside for cocoa. Change into dry clothes and go back outside.”
I freeze as she recites what’s obviously a memory. But one from before the accident, if she’s talking about her mother who died when she was young.
“Okay, Mommy. But I don’t like cocoa.”
“You never had my cocoa. I’ll bring up some juice for you.” Sandrine smiles and strolls past me.
I have far more practice being a father than a husband. While Violet is given an unprecedented amount of freedom and latitude with my patience, there’s no doubt that I’m in charge.
I can’t apply the same logic and behavior to a wife. And the frustration I felt out there in the snow fades with each passing second.
In the hallway, I tug Sandrine aside. “Hang on.”
Electricity crackles between us as our eyes lock.
She looks down at my hand on her arm. “Kirill, I’m sorry, I—”
“No,” I bite out. “I’m sorry. For earlier. The way I reacted.”
Her gaze searches mine, but she doesn’t accept my apology. I exhale slowly, dragging a hand up and down the back of my neck.
“It happens,” I add. “I didn’t always know what the hell I was doing. I made mistakes.”
She considers my admission. “And now I’ll be making them. According to you, you’ll be gone all the time, so I’ll have to figure it out myself.”
I tug her closer, narrowing the space between us. I’ve kept a distance from her too long. Since that night of our date, my body remembers her. And wants her. I just haven’t been able to let myself take it further.
Before I can second-guess it, I press a kiss to her lips.
It’s brief, restrained, and nothing like the hunger that still simmers beneath the surface. But it feels necessary. I can keep going, but I break the kiss, remembering her comment about her mother.
Holding her close, I say, “You mentioned your mother. Playing in the snow. Drinking cocoa?”
“I did.” She nods, staring up at me. “I saw old pictures. Lourdes shared photo albums with me from our childhood.”
“Oh. Again, I’m sorry.” I brush her hair from her face.
There’s an inferno in her eyes, but she backs off. “I’ll go make Violet some soup for lunch.”
“Sandrine, your clothes are wet, too,” I call out to her.
Touching her pants, she nods. “I hadn’t noticed. I was worried about Violet.”
“Go change and get warm. I’ll tell the cook to make the soup for both of you. And I’ll get her juice.”
Conflict flickers in her eyes. “Whatever you think is best, Kirill.”
Without another word, she disappears down the hall and into her bedroom. While I stand there and get my breathing under control from the kiss and how she looked at me.
Why are these feelings for her so unexpected?
Before I make too much of it, I return to the first floor and ask Milia, the cook, to make enough chicken soup for Violet and Sandrine. I check the refrigerator for juice and pour some into a plastic cup.
When I return to Violet’s room, I see Sandrine is already in the bathroom going through her medicine cabinet. She comes out and sees me standing there with the juice.
A smile stretches out between us. We’re taking care of our daughter together.
Violet stirs in bed, her small body restless beneath the covers.
“Mommy,” she whines.
“I’m here, sweetie.” Sandrine moves immediately, her eyes torn away from mine. “You need your medicine,” she says gently, leaning down to check her temperature with her lips on Violet’s forehead. “You’re still warm.”
“Soup is coming,” I say, watching Sandrine closely as she pours the liquid with careful precision.
When she lifts the cup to Violet’s lips, my daughter asks with a scratchy voice, “Is it the cherry flavor?”
“This one is grape.”
“I want the cherry flavor.”
I step forward ready to intervene, but Sandrine has it covered.
“It’s just as tasty,” she murmurs. “You’ll like it.”
Violet sits up and obeys. “Okay, Mommy.”
Seeing how she trusts Sandrine without question tugs at something deeper in my heart, something that feels dangerously close to awe.
She’s perfect with my daughter.
Our daughter.
When the medicine cup is empty, Sandrine smiles. “There you go.”
She sets it on the nightstand and brushes her fingers lightly over Violet’s cheek. A soft smile curves her lips as my daughter sinks back into the pillows, her eyes already growing heavy again.
“Have some juice, solnyshko.” I hand her the cup with the same care even though she’s perfect at drinking from her own cups now.
When it’s empty, she hands it back.
“You need to stay in bed.” I press a kiss to Violet’s forehead. “Your mother is right. You’re still warm. I’m going back to work. Be good for Mommy.”
I’m hating the world beyond this room right now and the darkness that demands my attention. All I want to do is bask in the light of my family.
“I will,” Violet whispers, nestling under the covers. “We’re going to read all my new books.”
Sandrine’s smile reaches her eyes, and it catches me off guard. “We sure will.”
As she steps to the bookshelf, I put my hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll be home late. Don’t wait for me to eat dinner.” I reach down and kiss her.
Then I turn toward the door, the pull of duty dragging me away.
And I already hate how long I’ll be gone.