Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Anna
What was he saying?
How could he joke like that in front of Alex?
I couldn't help but glare at him again.
Ivan's smile deepened, but he didn't push it further—he bent down, his fingertips brushing the top of Alex's head. "Come on, let me check your homework."
Alex's attention snapped away instantly. "Okay! I just drew a new picture."
The two of them headed into the small room, one after the other.
Alex bounced along, his slippers slapping against the floor.
I stood there watching their backs disappear through the doorway, hearing Alex chattering away in a low voice, Ivan murmuring a response, then the sound of a pencil case being opened.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to push down that hot flush of embarrassment in my chest, but it wouldn't sink. It sat there like a burning coal between my ribs, stuck.
Calm down, I told myself.
Everything he was doing—it was because he knew who Alex was. An impulse born of blood, nothing more.
Guilt, maybe. Responsibility. But not because of me.
What just happened was nothing but the most basic impulse between a man and a woman.
I couldn't let any of this mess up the life I'd barely managed to piece together.
I moved toward Alex's bedroom door. It wasn't closed. He sat at his little desk, holding up a blue crayon, excitedly pointing at the drawing spread out in front of him for Ivan to see.
On the paper were three blob-like figures holding hands, wobbly and colored all over.
"See, this one with long hair is Mommy, this little one is me, and this tall one—"
I knocked on the doorframe, cutting him off.
"Mr. Volkov, you should head home."
Alex turned to look at me, his mouth immediately dropping into a pout, his whole little face collapsing. "Mommy, let's have Ivan stay for dinner. Let him try your cooking."
When he called "Mommy," he dragged out the end of the word. Pure wheedling.
My hand tightened on the doorframe, the refusal stuck in my throat, going neither up nor down.
Ivan sat in that little chair, his knees folded awkwardly, looking uncomfortable, but his gaze lifted from the drawing and landed on my face. A faint smile played at the corners of his eyes, something I couldn't quite read.
Then his fingertip tapped the edge of the paper, on the outline of that tall figure. He didn't say anything, but that look had hooks in it, making my heart skip a beat.
That figure. He drew him. He knew damn well.
I looked away, turning toward the kitchen, and sent Chris a text. "Free tonight? Come over for dinner."
Within seconds, my phone buzzed twice. Chris replied quickly, saying he'd just wrapped up his work and could be there in about an hour.
I let out a breath and shoved the phone into my apron pocket.
I didn't want to, but Chris seemed like a good excuse. If he could help me shut down whatever Ivan was thinking, maybe I could get back to my quiet life.
The light over the stove glared white, shining on the vegetables spread across the counter and the unwashed tomatoes in the sink.
I turned on the faucet. Water hammered down. I kept my head low, turning the lettuce leaves over and over under the stream, but my mind kept turning over that look Ivan gave me.
Like his fingertip hadn't tapped the paper at all. Like he'd tapped my heart.
I shook my head. Shook all that nonsense out.
An hour later, I set the last dish on the table just as the doorbell rang.
I wiped my hands on my apron and opened the door. Chris stood outside in a light gray sweater, holding two boxes of fruit, smiling as he shook them at me. "Anna, I'm not late, am I?"
"Perfect timing," I said.
I stepped aside to let him in. Ivan walked out of the bedroom with Alex.
I stepped forward and looped my arm through Chris's, turning to Ivan. "This is my boyfriend."
The living room went silent.
Ivan's gaze dropped to where my arm linked with Chris's. The smile that had been at the corners of his eyes froze over.
He didn't look at Chris. The whole time, his eyes stayed pinned on my face.
I felt Chris's arm tense beneath my palm.
But only for a moment. He glanced at me, didn't call me out, and smiled as he extended his hand toward Ivan. "Hi, I'm Chris Harris. Nice to meet you."
Ivan didn't reach back.
He just stood there, a few steps away, arms hanging at his sides, no intention of shaking.
His gaze slid off my face and landed on Chris. A brief glance, like he was sizing up the quality of an object.
Then he looked back at me.
That look held nothing—no anger, no hurt, no questions. Just empty, like a wall scraped clean by wind.
I wished he'd gotten angry. Him looking at me like that, so quiet—it sent chills down my spine more than any accusation could.
Alex held his hand, tilting his little face up, piping up sweetly. "Ivan, this is Chris. He's really nice. He brings me toys all the time."
Ivan's Adam's apple bobbed. Finally, he reached out and shook Chris's hand.
"Ivan Volkov."
His knuckles went white. The handshake lasted just long enough to be polite, and short enough to make the coldness clear.
Alex didn't pick up on the tension crackling between the adults. He tugged on Ivan's sleeve, pulling him toward the table. "Ivan, let's eat. Mommy made roasted potatoes. They smell so good."
Ivan let himself be pulled forward a couple of steps, his feet following reluctantly, forced into a seat at the table.
Chris turned his head toward me, lowering his voice. "Who is this?"
I squeezed his arm, leaning close to his ear, my voice dropping as low as it would go. "He's Alex's father. I don't want anything more to do with him. Help me out."
Chris didn't ask questions. He just nodded slightly.
He slipped an arm around my waist and guided me to the table, pulling out my chair, then taking the seat beside me.
Ivan had already sat down. The silverware lay in front of him, knife and fork arranged neatly on the napkin, but he hadn't touched any of it. He just looked up at me, silent, that gaze heavy and suffocating, like a hot piece of iron pressed against my skin, burning me everywhere.
I deliberately avoided his eyes, ladling out a bowl of stew and passing it across the table. "Mr. Volkov, try some. Should still be hot."
That "Mr. Volkov" was enough to put distance between us.
Ivan's fingers clamped down on the table's edge. The wood nearly splintered under his grip. His gray-blue eyes looked like they were cracking, rage churning inside them.
But he didn't explode.
He just laughed. A short sound, so short it sank cold into my bones.
Chris sat beside me, casually placing a cut piece of steak on my plate, chatting like it was nothing, smiling as he told me about passing a flower shop this morning and seeing fresh champagne roses, petals still damp with water, lined up in buckets by the door.
"That must've been beautiful," I said.
"Yeah, I'll pick up a bouquet for you tomorrow."
I smiled and agreed.
Ivan's movement stopped. His spoon clinked against the edge of the bowl, a faint, brittle sound.
Alex was chewing on a roasted potato, a bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth, mumbling as he leaned over. "Ivan, why aren't you eating?"
Ivan turned to look at him, his mouth pulling into a curve. That smile sat wrong on his face, light and unnatural.
"I'm a little thirsty," he said.
Alex made an "oh" sound and obediently grabbed the glass water pitcher, pouring it into his cup.
Ivan drank one glass, then another.
I ducked my head, guilt gnawing at me. I knew he wasn't thirsty. He was too angry, so angry he needed to keep drinking water to drown the fire threatening to burst out of his throat.
Chris acted like he hadn't noticed anything wrong, still smiling and chatting with me about the flower shop, about how that pot of mint he'd bought last time was growing.
The meal dragged on forever.
Ivan didn't say another word. His leg under the table kept brushing against my ankle, forcing me to tuck my feet under my chair.
Finally, we finished eating. I suggested we walk Mr. Volkov out while it was still light.
Ivan stood beside me and laughed.
He turned his head to look at me, then at Chris, who was bending down to clear the dishes.
"You're making him stay and telling me to leave?"
He asked it so low only I could hear.
Please.
How was I supposed to answer that?
I took a deep breath, wringing the hem of my shirt, and smiled at Ivan—polite and distant. "Of course. He has a room here."
Ivan's face went tight, the line of his jaw like a drawn bowstring. He stepped forward, his tall frame instantly caging me in, that cold cedar scent rushing over me, pressing down until I could barely breathe.
I tilted my head back. Didn't retreat.
"Mr. Volkov, you need to leave."
Ivan looked down at me, his lashes casting deep shadows below his eyes. The gray-blue depths looked heavy, like rain that hadn't fallen all night.
After a long moment, he laughed softly, a sound laced with bitterness, scraping against my heart.
He turned and left. Didn't look back.
The door pulled open. Cold autumn wind rushed in, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and dirt, filling me with it. My shoulders trembled slightly, but I still didn't call him back.
The door closed slowly in the wind, hitting the frame with a low, muffled thud.
I stood in the entryway without moving. Light spilled in from the living room, cutting a slanted bright line across the floor.
His footsteps faded outside, carried off by the wind, bit by bit dissolving into the night until I couldn't hear them anymore.
I knew we were two lines. Maybe we'd crossed at some point by accident, but that was just fate playing a cruel joke. After the intersection, the lines would drift farther and farther apart, never coming close again.
Chris walked over, asking softly. "Anna, you okay?"
I steadied myself, locked the door, shutting out that cold wind laced with cedar completely.
"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "Sorry you'll have to share a bed with Alex for a while."
Chris shrugged. "My honor."
For days after, Ivan didn't appear. No calls, no texts, no figure suddenly showing up at the school gate. After that door closed, he vanished from our lives as if he'd never broken in at all, withdrawing completely.
Maybe he really had given up.
I went back to my old routine. Dropping Alex off at school during the day, going to my employer's house to teach, picking him up in the evening and making dinner. Everything looked the same as before.
But at night, everything was different.
Damn it, my body was like he'd woken it up. That need twisted through me every night, restless.
Outside, the streetlight threw shadows of the sycamore leaves onto the ceiling, long and slanted, swaying like a slow-moving hand. I closed my eyes, and the images floated up from inside my head—his hands, his breath, his voice in my ear.
I rolled over, my fingers sliding down without permission. Along my side, following the texture of my skin, inch by inch downward.
I recalled the movements he taught me that night, fumbling, searching.
A tingling pleasure shot up my nerves. I trembled, and outside the wind dragged sycamore leaves across the window glass, a rustling sound like someone's low panting.
I bit my lip, teeth sinking into the soft flesh, trying to swallow the broken whimpers in my throat.
But all I could see was him—the way he looked down at me, those gray-blue eyes glowing in the dark like fire-tempered water.
The pleasure built slowly, like a tide climbing over a sandbar, rising bit by bit, drowning me bit by bit.
Then—
The window slammed open.
Cold air rushed in. The curtain billowed and fell, white fabric whipping in the wind like a startled bird.
A man sat on the windowsill, his silhouette backlit by dim yellow light, black coat snapping in the night wind.
I couldn't see his face, only the outline the light carved around him.
Who was it?
My heart nearly shattered my ribs.
He dropped from the sill, landed solidly, and walked straight toward me.
Before I could sit up, his shadow pressed down over me.
He bent down, grabbed my chin, and kissed me hard.