12. Alexia
12
Alexia
R ose, Dave, and I have a lovely dinner together, giving me the false impression we could be normal people leading ordinary lives. I try not to read too much into the lingering looks I exchange with Dave. And, I tell myself he’s being just polite when he guffaws at Rose’s cute and innocent remarks. I can’t fall for the idea that he might be thinking our situation will last. This is all temporary. I have to keep reminding myself of that all the time. If I don’t, I’ll have my heart ripped from my chest when I realize Dave doesn’t feel the same way I do. I can’t afford that paralyzing pain, not on top of all the real life-threatening problems we are facing right now.
That’s why I don’t try to convince Dave to stay with us when he refuses Fran’s offer of her delicious Crème Br?lée, saying he’s got business to attend to in the study.
After Rose and I finish eating the dessert, we settle in the library and I read her books until she can’t keep her eyes open. I carry her out of the room and down the long corridor, her small arms wrapped around my neck, and her cheek nestled against my shoulder. My steps echo softly, the opulent silence pressing down around us. It’s a world away from the life I used to know, filled with the noise of Igor’s men, the distant clink of guns and chains, and the hushed whispers of conspiracies in the night.
Yet, as I walk through these muted hallways, a sliver of unease worms its way back in. Every step I take echoes down the corridor, a reminder that no matter how beautiful the walls, they can still trap me. The quiet here feels unnatural, almost fragile—a veneer of peace stretched thin over the lurking threats outside.
When I reach Rose’s room, I push open the door with my foot, and a soft glow from a small lamp illuminates the space. I pull down the fluffy quilt and soft sheets to lay her down beside her beloved stuffed dog, aptly named Doggy, that has seen countless hugs.
Rose stirs, her emerald eyes fluttering open. She smiles up at me, still half-dreaming. I sink to my knees beside her, smoothing the quilt over her tiny body, and press a kiss to her forehead. Her scent—a mixture of baby lotion and a faint hint of lavender from her bath—wraps around me, and for a moment, I pretend that I’m not hiding secrets that could shatter her world.
“Mama, will you stay with me?” she murmurs, her voice a sleepy whisper.
“Of course, moy zaychik,” I reply, my voice just as soft. I curl up beside her, pulling her into my arms, feeling her warmth. She’s the one pure thing in my life, the one thing I did right. Everything I’ve endured, all the mistakes I’ve made, were worth it just to have her here with me.
As her breathing evens out, I brush my fingers through her golden curls. They’re so much like mine, when I was younger, when I was happy with Dave. My throat tightens as I remember the stolen glances, the nights spent by the lake, dreaming of a future that felt so tangible then. I had no idea that our perfect world was a mirage, that I’d be forced into a life of deception and fear.
Those memories stir a glimmer of the man Dave used to be, the man who taught me to play the piano, who knew my favorite flowers, who could make me laugh with just a silly expression on his gorgeous face.
But that man is gone, replaced by someone steeped in violence, harder, colder, and wrapped in shadows. Yet, over the past three days, I saw glimpses of the man I fell for. I stroke Rose’s hair and feel the weight of my secrets pressing heavier than ever.
I stare into her green eyes. It’s impossible to ignore. Rose’s eyes are Martha’s, vivid and piercing. Dave has to have noticed by now—he adored his mother, knew every detail of her face. How much longer can I keep this from him?
The thought sends a fresh wave of panic crashing through me. How much longer can I keep this secret? Dave wanted a family of his own; I know what losing his mother did to him. And if he figures it out—if he realizes Rose is his daughter—it’ll change everything. I’m not ready for that day, and yet it’s creeping closer. The truth is like a storm on the horizon, dark and inevitable.
Rose’s small hand reaches up to touch my cheek, her eyes closed. “Love you, Mama,” she murmurs.
Her words pierce through me, anchoring me to this moment, this fleeting slice of peace in a world that seems determined to tear us apart.
“Love you more,” I reply, my voice breaking.
I press another kiss to her forehead, holding her close, trying to memorize the feel of her heartbeat against mine. She’s my reason for everything, my light in the darkness.
For now, the world is just me and my daughter, cocooned in this fragile peace, in a room that feels like a sanctuary. But I know it’s temporary. The shadows are stalking us and the secrets I carry will eventually bust their way in.
F eeling parched, I leave Rose’s room to go to the kitchen. The house is too quiet, and every shadow seems to stretch longer in the dim light. The vaulted ceilings and the heavy drapes swallow the night whole. I tiptoe down the corridor, my bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. I inhale sharply as my chest tightens with an inexplicable restlessness. Sleep won’t come tonight; I know it already. Too many memories crowd my thoughts, too many secrets make each breath a struggle.
As I reach the stairwell, the cold marble sends shivers up my spine. The temperature drops here, where the windows stand tall and narrow, their glass panes throwing distorted moonlight onto the floor. When I realize the sundress I’m wearing doesn’t shield me from the chill night air, I pause and draw my arms around myself. It’s a short trip there and back to the kitchen, so I decide not to go back to my room for a sweater.
When I get to the ground floor, a flash of movement catches my eye through the window of the foyer. There, barely visible under the dappled light of the moon, I make out a shadow—a man moving purposefully along the outer wall. He’s armed, his rifle slung across his shoulder as he surveys the grounds. It’s a stark reminder that this sanctuary is also a fortress, each guard a silent sentinel against the danger that creeps ever closer.
My heart thuds, jolted back to reality. This peace is borrowed, as fragile as the glass that separates us from the chaos outside. I draw a deep breath and force my feet to keep moving, trying to shake off the sense of foreboding that clings to me like second skin.
I hear a soft musical note, immediately swallowed by the stillness of the house. I tilt my head, straining to catch the sound. Another note follows, this one longer, filling the silence with a melancholy tone that curls around me like smoke. I follow it, drawn as though by an invisible thread, through a corridor I haven’t taken before. The music grows clearer, each note spilling over me, wrapping around the edges of my thoughts, soothing and stirring them all at once.
The sound pulls me toward a set of tall double doors at the far end of the hall. I pause, hand hovering over the cold brass handle, hesitating for just a moment. The music dips into a low, haunting melody, and I know it’s him. I’d know Dave’s touch anywhere, even if it’s just on the keys of a piano. I push the door open, slipping inside as quietly as I can.
The room exudes elegance and a quiet intimacy, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight streaming through expansive glass doors. A grand piano, its glossy surface reflecting the silvery light, stands proudly by the windows. Plush sofas and armchairs, draped in shades of deep blue and cream, invite you to sink into their warmth. Decorative pillows and cozy throws add an inviting touch, as if anticipating a night of whispered secrets and lingering glances.
The coffee table holds an empty glass of whiskey and a small plate of delicate hors d’oeuvres, remnants of a late-night snack. Soft nautical accents—a starfish, woven orbs, and a seashell—whisper of distant shores.
Outside, the moon hangs full and bright, casting a silvery path across the water beyond. The scene is one of quiet anticipation, as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for the night to truly begin.
There’s Dave, hunched over the keys, lost in the flow of music. The piano itself is a grand thing, black and gleaming, a stark contrast to the dimness around it. Dave looks as though he’s part of it, like he belongs here, in this room filled with secrets and shadows.
He plays with an intensity that ripples through the room, his fingers dancing across the keys as if he’s drawing every note straight from his soul. The sight of him like this, vulnerable and absorbed, stops me in my tracks. He looks different here—stripped of the hard edges, the layers of ice and steel that usually shield him from the world. Here, he’s just a man with a past, with shadows he tries to forget.
I don’t announce myself. I don’t want to break the spell. Instead, I stand at the doorway, watching him. His head is bent, the shadow of his strong jaw catching the moonlight. His dark brown hair falls slightly over his forehead, and his face is set, focused, as if he’s pouring his very essence into the melody. He wears a simple black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there’s something almost boyish about him now. It stirs memories of our younger days, back when we thought the world was a far gentler place.
My pulse quickens, but I hold my breath, willing myself to stay still. He finishes the piece with a soft, lingering chord that fades into the silence, leaving the room almost echoing with its absence. Dave lifts his hands from the keys, letting them hover in the air for a moment, as though he’s reluctant to let go of whatever he’s feeling.
He turns, sensing me there, his green eyes meeting mine with a flash of surprise. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then, he straightens, the momentary vulnerability slipping away as he gives me a nod.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is low, rough around the edges, like he’s just waking up from a dream.
I shake my head, moving closer until I’m standing beside him. “I guess you couldn’t either.”
Dave chuckles, a deep sound that vibrates through the room. “Old habits die hard. Mom used to play whenever she was restless. I guess it rubbed off on me.”
I remember watching Martha at the piano when we were young, before all the chaos and betrayal. She played with effortless grace, the notes floating through the house. Dave would stand by her side, his eyes glued to her fingers as if they held some secret magic he could never quite grasp.
He never hid the fact that he adored her. Many times he told me Martha grounded him, making him believe in something beyond the dark world that surrounded their family. I wonder if playing now is his way of reaching for that same comfort, a quiet connection to the woman who gave him the few pieces of light he clings to.
Despite his playful words, there is an ache in them. Remembering the pain of losing my own mother, I avoid the topic. It hurts too much to reach for something you can’t ever truly touch again.
Trying to pull his mind away from that memory, and brushing my hand along the edge of the piano, I say, “You tried to teach me once. I was terrible, though.”
He laughs softly, a sound that’s more of a rumble, deep and warm. “You had a good ear, just… not much patience.”
I roll my eyes. “Patience is overrated.” But I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. His laugh feels like a balm, a crack in the armor that he wears so fiercely.
He gestures to the seat beside him on the piano bench, and I take it, settling close enough that our shoulders almost touch. I glance at him, catching the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips, and I feel that familiar flutter in my chest, the one that never seems to fully disappear around him.
I rest my fingers on the keys, pressing down a single note, letting the sound hang between us.
He takes over, his hands covering mine for a brief moment, guiding them to the right place. There’s an intimacy to it, a familiarity that feels almost too raw, too close. He starts to play, slowly, gently, and I follow along, trying to match his tempo. The melody is haunting, the kind that sinks into your bones and stirs up things you thought you’d buried.
We fall into a rhythm, our movements synchronized, and it’s like we’re back in time, sitting at the piano in the house where he grew up, sharing quiet moments and soft words.
Flashes of his mother teaching him to play flood my mind. I don’t mention her because her passing feels so recent. His gaze grows distant and thoughtful, probably thinking of her, but I don’t press him on the topic. I know better than anyone how hard it is to reopen unhealed wounds. Tension builds, thick and potent, as the melody winds down. Our hands slow, and he lets his fingers linger on the final chord, the sound stretching into silence.
Still gazing at the keyboard, Dave murmurs, “I don’t know what’s been triggering me, but I can’t stop thinking about her lately.” He lifts his eyes to mine. My heart crumbles at the longing in them. “Mom, you know?”
I nod. “It’s natural you remember her often. It’s only been four years since she passed.”
“Yet the pain is so fresh.” His eyes drill mine as if he’s seeking the truth in them. He knows how much I suffered when my mother passed, and he asks, “When is it going to stop hurting?”
I squeeze his forearm. “I lost mine thirteen years ago and it still hurts like hell. You just learn to live with the pain.”
“You’re right. Losing your mother at just fifteen was devastating.” He strikes a couple of random keys. “I should be grateful that I had my mom for thirty years. She was such a remarkable woman.”
The softness in his voice, the way he talks about her with a reverence that’s rare for him, makes me see him in a different light—a glimpse of the man he was, the man he might still be beneath the layers of darkness.
At the same time, my guilty conscience flares, realizing that Rose has the same exact eye color as Martha’s. I’m sure that’s part of the reason he’s been thinking about his mother over the past days. I’m just not ready to point that out to him yet.
We’re close enough that I can feel his breath, the warmth of his presence, and it’s overwhelming, almost suffocating in its intensity. It wipes out everything from my mind. It lifts the burden of my lies and secrets from my shoulders. It makes me forget all the valid reasons why we should not act on the intense physical attraction still binding us together.
His gaze drops to my lips, and the air between us crackles with energy. I think he’s going to kiss me. I slide my tongue over my lower lip to alleviate its dryness.
“I should go,” he murmurs. His eyes flick to mine, holding my stare as if he’s reluctant to leave.
I nod, though, my heart aches with the weight of everything I haven’t said.
He doesn’t move, though.
The silence stretches between us, electric. The air feels warmer, heavier, like we’re both caught in a moment we shouldn’t be lingering in.
Dave’s fingers brush against mine on the keys. He’s so close that I almost forget how to breathe.
He shifts, his hand lifting to catch a loose strand of hair that’s fallen across my face. His fingertips are rough and warm as they tuck the hair behind my ear. The world narrows to the space between us, to the unwavering pull that’s always connected us, no matter how much I try to deny it.
He leans in, his gaze falling to my lips again. I know better than to give in, but my heart doesn’t seem to care. My breath hitches, waiting for a kiss I’m not sure we can afford.