Chapter 15 #4
“How bad are you hurting? I still think you should take up Bear’s offer to go to the hospital.”
Keys didn’t shrug, because honestly he didn’t have the energy to move. “On a scale of one to ten? Six. Maybe six and a half. Your sister does not pull her punches.”
“I know,” Rose begrudgingly admitted. After keeping his glasses safe for him, she’d set them on the end table by the couch so he could ice his face. He still hadn’t reached for them, even though, the band-aids from Oscar had more of a healing effect than that bag of peas did.
“I’m mad at you,” she murmured.
Keys’ eyebrows shot up, which made his entire face freeze in pain. “Ouch! Crap! For what?”
“Where does it hurt, Keys?” Oscar frantically asked. Then added a band-aid to Keys’ nostrils before Keys could respond that he was fine.
“For not fighting back,” Rose answered without moving.
“You just stood there and took it. I don’t know if you thought you were being chivalrous, or got some twisted idea in your head that by turning yourself into a living punching bag you would earn her respect,” her hand slapped down gently on his thigh, “but don’t ever do that again. ”
“I didn’t do it for her or for you,” Keys told her honestly. “I did it for me, to take responsibility for my actions.”
Rose let out a moan, likely picking up on the fact that he’d mirrored a similar argument she’d presented to Poison not too long ago. “What a pair we make.”
Keys smiled, tired and aching, but completely content. “What a pair indeed.”
He started to drift off until the four year old on his lap suddenly shouted. “Oh no! I’m out of band-aids!” Scrambling off Keys’ lap, Oscar ordered in a stern voice. “Don’t die! I’m going to go get more!”
Rose snorted as her son ran off. Keys just shook his head and closed his eyes again.
* * *
“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare had asked.
It seemed so trivial a question, the importance of a name.
On one side of the scale, it was your identity, a connection to your family and blood.
On the other scale, it was simply a word.
Letters put together to form sounds that trigger a memory or an image.
People name their children like they name their pets, and for someone like Kitty, they were shed just as easily.
The storm clouds overhead did not deter him as he waited against Poison’s bike.
He’d sold his, never planning on riding separately from her again.
From the moment they bumped into each other in that Vermont mansion, Kitty hadn’t cared about his name.
He hadn’t cared about his identity or his family.
Because he’d found her. Possibly the most stubborn woman on the planet, but she was pure.
No masks, no fakes, no lies… Ivy Benson was exactly who she portrayed herself to be, and fucking hell, did he love that.
He didn’t move as she came through the clubhouse doors.
That was until he saw her bloody fists, and his eyes narrowed.
Poor Keys, but the kid had it coming in Kitty’s opinion.
Knowing where Rose was all this time and saying diddly squat?
No, beyond that—he’d openly acted like he didn’t, even going as far as to yell at Poison for “losing MV”.
Yeah, Kitty owed the kid a punch or two as well.
Poison stopped right in front of him, crossing her arms over her lovely tits.
But now was not the time to get distracted by her body.
It might be the place, depending on how this conversation went.
But then these VDMC people did like to pop out kids continuously.
Shit, Kitty supposed finding someplace more private than the club’s parking lot would be more appropriate. Or at least, less rude.
“Rurik,” she said shortly.
But he shook his head. “Maybe by birth, but that’s not who I am now. You gave me a different name,” he reminded her.
Poison’s jaw tightened. “I gave you a lot more than my name. You convinced me to give you my heart, my trust. I don’t give a damn if it was a lie by omission, it was still a lie. The one thing you swore to me you’d never do.”
Kitty did not cower, did not look away. “I have never hidden who I was. I did not give you a name, but I told you things. I told you enough that if you wanted to look, you could have figured it out.”
“Don’t put this on me. Don’t make this out to be like you left me breadcrumbs and I was just too dumb to follow.”
Kitty straightened off the bike. Approaching her swiftly, he took her chin in his hand. “Don’t you fucking call yourself dumb, and don’t you fucking accuse me of calling you so. You are the smartest person I know—because you fell in love with me,” he added, because he couldn’t resist.
Poison’s lips twitched. It was so minimal that Kitty barely felt it, but he sure as hell saw it. “Who are you?” she asked pointblank.
“You asked me that once before,” Kitty said, dropping his hand. “Here, actually,” he indicated the clubhouse. “Do you remember?”
She nodded. “You told me your father was murdered because of who he was, that your name could get you killed. Did you lie about that, too?”
Kitty shook his head. “I wish I had. I wish I was nothing more than just some random stranger who learned a very useful set of skills when I was younger and decided to turn it into a less-than-honorable career.”
“Tell me,” Poison ordered. “Tell me the secret that was worth risking my heart for.”
Kitty took a deep breath. “My name is Rurik Mikhailovich Romanov. If the Russian Imperial House had not been abolished in 1917, I would be the heir to the throne.”
Poison stared at him.
And stared at him.
And continued staring at him.
Kitty waited, knowing the secret was a lot to handle. He’d barely been able to handle it as a preteen when he’d finally learned the truth.
Then she laughed. It started as a short sound of sheer disbelief that slowly built until she threw her head back in near hysterical laughter that echoed off surrounding rooftops and vehicles.
He didn’t move. In all honesty, he expected this.
Because it really did sound ridiculous, like the opening of a very bad joke.
“Okay, okay. That was good. You nearly had me,” Poison giggled, still smiling. She wiped the corner of her eye. “I did not realize how much I needed that, you cocky bastard. I hate it that you know me so well.” She chuckled again, one last time. “Okay, I’m ready. Who are you really?”
He didn’t repeat it. He just stared down at her, waiting for her to accept the truth he’d laid out before her.
Poison snickered again, but her smile was more forced this time. “I’m serious. Stop joking around. If you’re a Romanov then I’m Catherine the Great.”
Kitty did not look away from her, silently begging for her to understand. To believe.
Her smile faltered, and Poison looked at him more carefully. “You… You can’t be serious.”
“I have no reason to lie to you, and certainly not about this.”
She studied his face for a long moment with assessing eyes that had always been able to read him better than anyone. She was looking for the tell, the punchline. She would not find one.
Her eyebrows drew down, and her frown deepened. She took a tiny step back as her eyes roamed from his head to his shoes and back. Was she expecting to see his Order of St. Andrew Sash if she looked hard enough?
Poison rolled back on her other heel. “I think you need to tell me everything, and history was never my best subject so talk to me like I’m five. Okay?”
Kitty cracked a smile at that. “My great-great-great grandfather was Alexander II, Tsar of All the Russias. He had two sons, one of which, Nicholas, I know you are familiar with—or at least his famous daughter, Anastasia. But what’s less commonly known is that Alexander had a second son named George.
History believes that he died unmarried and childless in 1899 at the age of twenty-eight, but of course, they’d be wrong. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.
“Prior to his death, George had a quiet but legal marriage to a woman named Ilona. To my family’s knowledge, he died before he knew about her pregnancy to his son and heir, Yuri.
Shortly before the Russian Revolution that claimed the lives of Nicholas, his wife, and five children, Ilona and Yuri were smuggled out with a fortune sewn into the lining of a coat.
They were both given new names at Ellis Island.
Now American, Yuri would go on to father a son and so on until my father Mikhail was born.
Despite the care that my ancestors and their protectors took to safeguard my bloodline, there are still those out there who believe or suspect.
Men who want the Romanov name restored to a throne that no longer exists, and when I was young, they finally managed to track down my father.
He got my mother, my sister, and me out, but was unable to escape with his own life. ”
Kitty paused a moment, memories of that horrid night stabbing at his soul like jagged claws. “My father paid the price for the blood that runs through his veins, Poison. I refuse to allow you to pay the same.”
Poison held very still, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. But at least she was no longer looking for the punchline.
“Your name is Rurik Romanov,” she said slowly, butchering the correct pronunciation.
“Rurik Mikhailovich Romanov,” he confirmed. “Though, technically, I was born ‘Rome Aleksander’.”
Poison looked at him for a very long time.
“Do you understand what it is I am telling you, Poison? How knowing my name is like an infection, and I’m patient zero.
My father refused to be used as a political symbol for a movement he didn’t believe in, and they decided to remove him as an obstacle.
He was executed on his knees, shot in the back like a lowly criminal, because he would not submit to them.
Which means that I am the next in line.”