Epilogue 1
Willow
The day Little Pudding was born, New York got its first snow of the winter.
I lay on the delivery bed drenched in sweat, my hair plastered to my cheeks in wet strands. I could barely lift my hand. When the doctor placed that wrinkled little baby in my arms, I stared at his tiny old-man face, and my tears just spilled out.
This was my son. Artyom's and mine.
The delivery room door slammed open, and I saw Artyom almost crash inside. He still wore a bulletproof vest. There was blood on his face, God knew whose. His eyes looked panicked, like a kid who'd lost his way home.
He crossed the room in three long steps, reached for me, then froze like he didn't dare touch. In the end he only brushed the damp tips of my hair, barely there. His voice came out wrecked.
"Does it hurt?"
I didn't even get a word out before the nurse who'd followed him in frowned and shoved him back. "Family out, please. She just gave birth; she needs rest. And during breastfeeding, men can't just come in and out. We're avoiding infection."
I watched Artyom's usually blank face fall apart in a second. He tried to say something, but the nurse didn't give a damn and pushed him right back through the door.
The lock clicked shut.
For a split second I actually saw him through the crack, hands on the frame, looking ridiculously wronged.
Back then, I had no idea that this was only the beginning of his six-month-long dry spell.
?????
After I got discharged and we went back to the family mansion, the rules got even tighter.
Artyom's mother, Anna Sokolova, had moved into the family mansion back in my third trimester.
She hadn't liked me from the start. I knew that the first time I met her.
She came from old nobility, carried elegance like armor, and the way she looked people over felt like ice chips on bare skin. That first meeting, she scanned me up and down for a long beat, then said flatly, "Too heavy. But sturdy. Good for having children."
I stood there in the living room gripping my clothes like an idiot, curling my toes in embarrassment. Artyom slid an arm around my waist, face cold as stone, and said to his mother, "I like her like this."
That was the only reason the conversation didn't get uglier.
So that first week back at the family mansion after the birth, I lived on edge. Anna showed up at the nursery door like clockwork every day, watching me nurse Little Pudding, change diapers, burp him. The scrutiny in her eyes never eased up.
Little Pudding was a tiny demon in a cute body.
Maybe he'd taken after Artyom. He slept like an angel during the day, then the second night hit, he screamed like the world was ending.
I had no clue what I was doing at first. My nipples cracked raw.
Every feeding had me sweating through the pain.
When he cried at midnight, I dragged myself up, rocked him, soothed him, then pumped, did warm compresses, tried to get ahead of the next round.
Half the time I lay down and the sky was already turning pale.
Artyom was even worse than me. The second Little Pudding made a sound, Artyom woke up faster than I did. He'd reach for the baby every time, and every time Anna blocked him at the door.
"You're a grown man with big, clumsy hands. What if you hurt him?" Anna stood there with her arms crossed, not even trying to be polite. "Willow just gave birth. She needs rest. Stop making it harder. Go sleep in your own room."
"I'm staying. I'm helping her take care of our kid." Artyom frowned, impatience already roughening his voice.
"Helping?" Anna shot him a sideways look. "What exactly are you going to help with while she's breastfeeding? Don't tell me you'll stand there watching and get ideas, then end up hurting her. I'm telling you right now. Until the baby's weaned, you're not setting foot in their room."
I sat up against the headboard with Little Pudding in my arms, listening to Artyom getting shut down in the hallway, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Mr. Sokolov, the man who'd bulldozed his way across Europe, couldn't get a single word out in his own house when his mother went after him.
If the underground world ever heard about it, it would've blown their minds.
At first I thought Anna was just targeting me.
Then one night Little Pudding spit up, and I panicked so hard my hands didn't work.
Anna heard the commotion and rushed in immediately.
She scooped him up smoothly, turned him on his side, patted his back with practiced calm, and told me to grab a warm towel and wipe his face.
When he finally settled, she turned to me, her voice softer than usual.
"You just had a baby. Stop trying to muscle through everything. If you need something, call the staff. Or call me."
She handed me a mug of milk. Her fingertips brushed the dark shadows under my eyes. She sighed.
"I know you thought I didn't like you. I didn't, at first. Artyom's been cold since he was small. Women never stayed around him. I figured you were one of those girls who glued themselves to him for money."
I cradled the mug and didn't answer.
"But I watched you." She sat on the edge of my bed, her gaze drifting to Little Pudding sleeping in the crib.
"You care. He makes one sound, and you jump.
You're in pain nursing, and you don't complain once.
You never let Artyom help at night because you don't want it to mess up his work the next day.
Artyom doesn't get much mothering. I wasn't... a good mother.
I don't want his child growing up like he did. "
I looked up at her and noticed, for the first time, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. This woman had built an empire with her husband, then lost him early. She'd raised a young Artyom in the middle of bullets and blood. Whatever softness she'd ever had got sanded off a long time ago.
"I know you're trying to protect us," I said quietly.
She stared at me for a moment, then smiled. She patted the back of my hand. "Don't be so formal with me. We're family. If that boy ever bullies you, you tell me. I'll straighten him out."
After that, Anna's attitude changed. She simmered nourishing soup for me herself.
She taught me how to make Little Pudding's first foods.
And when Artyom tried to sneak into my room, she still kicked him out without mercy.
Then she'd turn around and hand me a plate of raspberry mini cakes she knew I loved.
Only Artyom grew more visibly restless by the day.
Every evening he came home and made a beeline for the nursery, wanting to hold Little Pudding, wanting to talk to me. Most nights he barely warmed the chair before Anna tossed him out with "The baby needs sleep" or "Willow needs rest."
At first he argued. After enough verbal beatdowns, he ended up standing at the doorway, fingers hooked around the frame, watching me nurse with that miserable, haunted look. He looked like a big dog somebody had left outside in the rain.
One night I'd finally gotten Little Pudding down, and I was about to shower when someone knocked softly twice.
I opened the door, and Artyom stood there holding a plate of sliced strawberries. The second he saw me, his eyes lit up.
"Mom's asleep," he whispered. He tried to slip inside. "I brought you strawberries. You like them."
I almost laughed from pure disbelief. I pressed my hand to his chest and stopped him. "Did you forget what Anna said? You can't come in while I'm breastfeeding."
"Just for a minute. I won't touch you." He frowned, his gaze dipping to my collar like it had a mind of its own. His voice went rough. "I just wanted to see you. I missed you so bad I felt sick."
He reached for me anyway. I heard footsteps down the hallway and shoved him back, heart kicking hard. "Go. Now. She's coming."
Artyom's face tightened. He leaned in, stole a quick kiss at the corner of my mouth, and vanished.
I shut the door and leaned against it, pulse racing, cheeks burning. Only then did I realize he'd shoved the plate of strawberries into my hands.
Those sneaky, stolen moments lasted almost two months.
Little pudding got bigger by the day. His face started to take shape, and he looked more and more like Artyom.
Deep gray eyes. A sharp little nose. When he smiled, there was even a dimple in his cheek.
He matched Artyom's childhood photos so perfectly it was almost eerie.
Anna adored him like he was oxygen. She carried him all day and barely let go.
When Artyom wanted to hold him, he had to practically submit paperwork.
That afternoon the weather was nice. Anna took Little Pudding out to the garden to get some sun and look at the tulips that had just opened.
I'd just finished nursing, and my chest started to swell with pain, like something hard was clogged inside.
Even the slightest touch hurt. I knew it was engorgement.
The nurse had taught me how to massage to keep things moving.
I sat on the bed and tried for a long time, sweating from the pain, and nothing loosened.
When the door opened, I thought Anna had come back.
It was Artyom.
He froze in the doorway when he saw me frowning, one hand pressed to my chest. His face changed in a snap.
"What happened? Where does it hurt?"
He crossed the room fast, reached for me, and I flinched away.
"It's nothing. Just engorgement. It hurts a little. I'll work it out." I bit my lip, my voice shaking anyway.
He took one look at my pale face, and his jaw tightened. He sat beside me like he'd decided it was done, then laid his hand gently over my chest, right on top of the nursing bra.
"Let me help. I asked the doctor. I know how to unclog it."
"No." Panic shot through me. I tried to scoot back. "You have to go. If Anna comes back and sees..."