Chapter Twenty-Three
Arkady
I’m heading to check on Debra when I stop dead at the garden entrance.
Through the hedge line, I see them. Mirabel and Debra. Together. The pram between them.
My feet won’t move.
I knew this moment would come; it was inevitable.
Still, the guilt sits heavy in my chest. I should have told her the moment I pulled Debra from that cellar.
Should have brought them together instead of playing god with their reunion.
But Debra was barely stable—dissociating every few hours, flinching at footsteps, unable to speak without her therapist present. When do you decide they’re ready?
Apparently not my decision to make. And now here we are.
Fear threads through the guilt. Mirabel could walk. Should walk. I’ve lied to her face every day about so many things. Lied while she worried about her missing sister. Lied while we fucked. Lied while she fell asleep in my arms.
Then there’s the protectiveness—bone-deep, automatic. They’re exposed out here. Three clear sight lines. My men are positioned at every angle, but I still want them inside. Want walls and locks and armed security between them and anything that could hurt them.
Blyad.
I force myself forward. Slow steps. My boots scrape stone too loudly, but they don’t notice. Too wrapped up in each other—holding hands, crying, identical faces twisted with the same grief.
Something in my throat makes it hard to swallow.
I stop a few feet away. Wait.
Mirabel’s the first to sense me. Her head lifts. Then Debra’s. Brown eyes lock on mine—Mirabel’s red-rimmed and fierce, Debra’s still carrying that hollow look that never quite goes away.
Nobody speaks.
Aleks makes soft sounds in the pram. A bird calls somewhere in the hedge.
Mirabel’s studying me. That analytical look she gets, taking in my expression, my posture, the way I’m standing like I’m waiting for her verdict. She’s putting it together. How long I’ve known. How many times I looked her in the eye and said nothing.
Her fingers tighten around Debra’s hand.
“It’s okay.” Her voice cracks. “I think I know why you did what you did.” She pauses again. “Thank you for saving my sister.”
Thank you.
The words make my chest tighten. Like I deserve gratitude when all I did was clean up my father’s mess.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. What do I say to that?
Aleks’s crying cuts through the moment. Sharp, insistent wails.
“He must be hungry,” I manage.
“I’ll go feed him.” Debra’s already moving, releasing Mirabel’s hand and grabbing the pram. She doesn’t look at me as she passes. Just pushes Aleks toward the house in quick, anxious movements.
Leaving us alone.
Mirabel stands there in jeans and an oversized sweater, mascara smeared under her eyes, looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. Or maybe seeing me clearly for the first time.
I should say something. Explain. Apologize. Something.
“I didn’t know you’d be out here.” The words come out wrong. Awkward. But my brain’s scrambling.
She nods. “Volodya’s waiting in the car.”
Right. My driver. The one I ordered to follow her everywhere after Gavriil’s men tried to grab her. Another thing I haven’t spoken to her about.
“You’re out here with Debra,” I say. Obvious. Stupid. But I don’t know how to navigate this—don’t know what she needs from me right now.
“Yes.” Her chin lifts. That stubborn angle I know too well. “I want to spend time with my sister. I want—” Her voice breaks. “I want to understand what happened to her. Where she’s been. Why you didn’t tell me she was here.”
Fair questions. All of them.
But before I can answer, my eyes catch on something else. The bag on the flagstones. Big canvas duffel, stuffed full, zipper straining.
My stomach drops.
“What’s that?” The words come out sharp.
She doesn’t answer. Just looks at the bag, then at me.
“Mirabel.” I take a step closer. “What’s in the bag?”
“What do you think?” Her voice is brittle. “Clothes. Toiletries. Everything I own.”
No. No, no, no.
“Why?” But I already know. Can see it in the set of her shoulders, the way she’s standing like she’s braced for impact.
She draws a breath but doesn’t say anything.
I can’t breathe. The air won’t come.
“You were leaving.” I hear myself say it. Confirming. Making it real.
“I couldn’t do it anymore!” It bursts out of her, all the emotion she’s been holding back. “I couldn’t stay in this house with you keeping secrets, with locked doors I’m not allowed through, with you going from cold to hot and back again. I didn’t know what we were. What I was to you.”
“You’re—”
“Your housekeeper?” She’s crying now, angry tears streaming down her face.
“Am I your lover? Your fuck? What am I, Arkady? Because I can’t figure it out.
You won’t let me in. You won’t talk to me.
We have sex, and it’s intense and real, and then you disappear behind your walls again. And I just— I can’t take it anymore.”
Every word cuts. Because she’s right. I’ve been using her. Taking everything she gives while offering nothing but my body and my money in return.
“My mind is one big clusterfuck of confusion!” Her hands gesture wildly. “And I can’t— I can’t raise a baby in that kind of chaos.”
Everything stops.
“A baby.” My voice sounds strange. Distant.
She nods. Tears still falling, but her eyes locked on mine. Waiting for my reaction. Terrified of my reaction.
“My baby deserves better than that,” she whispers.
The words echo in my head. Baby. My baby. Deserves better.
“Your baby?” I force the question out.
She nods. Tears still falling, but her eyes locked on mine. “Yes. My baby. Your baby. I’m pregnant with your child, Arkady.”