Chapter 13 #2
“Nothing dramatic that first night. He just looked at me for a long moment, went to his office, and came back with a sandwich and a thermos of hot coffee. Then he told me to be quiet because he had work to finish.” I sniffle, remembering how I’d spent that night in fear, certain he’d call the police at any moment, but also warm and full for the first time in weeks.
Iskander waits for me to continue, his patience giving me space to find the right words.
“The next morning, he woke me up by handing me a needle and thread. ‘If you’re going to sleep in my shop,’ he said in that French accent of his, ‘You’re going to learn to earn your keep properly.
’ He never asked about my situation or threatened to call authorities. He just started teaching me to sew.”
The memory brings unexpected warmth to my chest. “For two weeks, I slept in the shop and learned basic stitches during the day. Henri would bring me food, show me techniques, and treat me like I’d always been there.
When he finally asked why I wasn’t in school, I told him about the foster homes and why I was running. ”
A tender smile flashes across his mouth. “He let you stay?”
I nod. “He said the system had already failed me once, and he didn’t trust it to do better the second time around. He helped me get documentation saying I was emancipated, found me a tiny apartment above a bakery, and gave me a job that paid enough to survive on.”
He nods, looking satisfied. “He became your family.”
“The only real family I ever had besides Harper.” The words come out softer than I intended as a wave of emotion washes over me, threatening to bring tears.
“Henri taught me everything about tailoring, but more than that, he showed me what stability looked like and what it meant to have someone believe in your potential.”
We sit in comfortable silence for several minutes, both lost in thoughts about the people who shaped us. The shared stories create an intimacy that feels different from the physical attraction between us.
“I understand now why losing him hurt so much.” Iskander’s voice is gentle.
I sniff and reach for a tissue, catching a stray tear before it can fall. “He was the only person who ever made me understand what belonging somewhere actually meant. When Mikhail’s men killed him, they didn’t just take away my mentor. They destroyed the only home I’d ever known.”
His hand reaches across the space between our chairs and covers mine with gentle pressure. “I’m sorry my world cost you someone so important.”
The apology surprises me with its sincerity. “Henri knew what kind of business he was running. He made choices that brought him into your world, even if he tried to keep his distance from the violence.”
“That doesn’t make his death acceptable.”
I squeeze his fingers, anchoring myself to the present moment rather than drowning in grief. “No, it doesn’t, but dwelling on blame won’t bring him back or protect these babies.”
Our conversation is interrupted by soft footsteps in the hallway. A gentle knock on the doorframe announces Alina’s presence before she appears, her expression politely neutral. “I’m sorry to disturb you both, but I wanted to check if you needed anything before I finish preparations for dinner.”
I look at her delicate features and wonder how someone so young ended up working for a man like Iskander.
“Thank you, Alina, but I think we’re fine for now,” he says.
She nods and turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “Ms. Reynolds, if you need anything during your stay here, please let me know.” Her tone is professional and distant but not unkind.
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
After she disappears down the hallway, Iskander and I return to discussing the shop’s business operations. He walks me through legitimate accounts that need attention and helps me understand which transactions require careful documentation.
Working together reveals a different side of him. He can be patient and methodical rather than just commanding and dangerous or intense and demanding like when he’s in bed. He explains complex financial structures with ease.
“You’re a good teacher,” I say as we finish reviewing the quarterly reports.
He shrugs off the compliment. “Henri trained you well. You understand the fundamentals better than most people who’ve been in this business for years.”
The words warms me in ways that have nothing to do with physical attraction. Being valued for my intelligence and skills rather than just protected makes me feel less like a prisoner.
As evening approaches, we share dinner in his private dining room, using fancy crystal glasses that seem to be the everyday norm around here, and the gourmet-quality meal arrives on delicate china. “Can I ask you something else?” I cut into perfectly prepared salmon.
“Of course.”
“Do you think I’m making the right choice to keep all seven babies when the doctors are already warning about complications? Am I being unfair? If I lose all…” My voice cracks, and I take a long sip of water to hide the swell of emotions.
He pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Do you want an honest answer or a reassuring one?”
“Honest. Always honest.”
“I think you’re making the only choice you can live with.
You’ve lost too much family to voluntarily give up any part of what we’ve created together.
” His voice softens slightly. “If that leads to a bad outcome for all of them, at least we’ll know we did our best to give each of them a chance instead of sacrificing some for others. ”
The perceptive answer makes my lips wobble as I try not to cry, especially at his use of “we.” “You don’t think I’m being na?ve about the risks?”
“I think you’re being human. The medical risks are real, but so is your need to protect what you love.”
His certainty steadies something anxious in my chest, and the wave of tears recedes. “What if something happens to me during delivery?”
He blanches, seeming genuinely distraught by the question and the answer. “It won’t.”
I shake my head. “You can’t know that.”
He seems like he’ll slam his fist on the table, but it lands softly at the last moment. “Nothing can happen to you. The babies need you, and I need you.” He breathes deeply. “If…that thing that won’t happens happened, I’d still take care of the babies and make sure they know all about you.”
Those damned tears threaten again, and I wipe my eyes before answering. “It’s reassuring to hear that.”
He nods, looking like he never wants to discuss that possibility again. When he changes the subject to the book he’s reading about multiple pregnancy, I happily go with it, especially since he’s focusing only on facts and tips while sharing nothing grim.
After dinner, I excuse myself to prepare for bed, suddenly overcome by pregnancy fatigue.
In the hallway, I encounter Alina carrying fresh linens, though she appears to be leaning against the hallway near the dining room at the moment.
It’s a large stack of linens, so I’m not surprised she needs a break.
“How are you settling in?” She shifts the linens to one arm and stands up fully again.
“Better than I expected, considering the circumstances.” I slump against the wall, suddenly dizzy.
“This must be difficult for you.” Her tone remains professionally sympathetic without warmth.
“It is, but I’m trying to focus on the babies.”
“Seven babies.” She shakes her head slightly. “That’s quite unprecedented.”
Her clinical response surprises me. Most people react with either excitement or concern, but Alina’s reaction is almost analytical. I wonder who told her it was seven, but it’s probably common knowledge around the estate by now.
We exchange a few more polite words before she continues toward the guest wing. I wonder what she really thinks about the chaos that’s invaded her employer’s orderly household.
In my suite, I prepare for bed with ritualistic care before going into Iskander’s room. He isn’t it there yet, but I crawl into his bed anyway, comforted by his scent clinging to the sheets and knowing he’ll take me into his arms when he comes to bed.
I shift and turn, trying to get comfortable. My body no longer belongs entirely to me, being already expanded and sensitive in ways that require constant adjustment. I settle into a new position under the expensive covers and try to quiet my mind, but thoughts chase each other in endless circles.
Just as sleep claims me, my dreams transport me back to Henri’s shop on a winter afternoon when I was nineteen and dating a boy who thought my virginity was something to be conquered.
In the dream, just like it happened in real life, Henri and I are making madeleines in his tiny kitchen above the shop, with our hands covered in flour and butter while golden cakes bake in his ancient oven.
The kitchen smells like vanilla and lemon and is warm and safe in the way only Henri’s presence could create.
“Willa, ma petite ,” he says in the gentle voice I miss desperately, “You must learn the difference between a man who sees your worth and one who only sees what he can take from you.”
Dream-Henri shapes perfect shells of batter while speaking with patient wisdom. “A man who truly cares for you will never pressure you to give more than you’re ready to offer. He will wait for your trust like these cakes wait for proper baking time.”
“How do I know the difference?” Dream-me asks the question carrying all the confusion and fear of being nineteen and inexperienced with love.
“Watch his hands, ma chère . A good man’s hands create beautiful things, they protect what matters, and they never take without permission. A selfish man’s hands only grab and consume.”
The dream shifts and blurs. Henri’s voice becomes distant as my unconscious mind processes the day’s revelations about Iskander’s violent capabilities alongside his unexpected gentleness.
I wake with tears on my cheeks and Henri’s voice still echoing in my memory. The wisdom he’d offered about recognizing good men seems impossibly relevant to my current situation with a Russian crime boss who kills people yet treats me with careful tenderness.
My breathing becomes rapid and shallow, panic rising as I realize I don’t know how to reconcile the man who killed Alexei and probably others with the one who holds me like I’m made of spun glass.
What would Henri think about the choices I’m making?
Would he be proud of my strength, or horrified by the world I’ve allowed myself to be pulled into?
The panic attack builds with frightening speed, constricting my chest until I can’t draw proper breath. The room spins around me as I struggle to distinguish between dream and reality, past and present, and safety and danger.
“Willa?” Iskander’s voice cuts through the panic, and I realize I must have cried out in my panic.
He sits on the bed beside me, wearing pajama pants and nothing else, with his hair mussed and his expression alert with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Bad dream.” I push out the words between gasping. “I can’t seem to catch my breath.”
He crosses the room and sits on the edge of my bed, his presence immediately grounding me to the present moment. “You’re safe. You’re here with me, and nothing can hurt you.”
The deep rumble or his masculine voice is exactly what I need to combat the irrational terror consuming my nervous system. He doesn’t demand explanations or try to fix what’s wrong. He simply stays close while I fight my way back to rational thought.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His question comes once my breathing has returned to something approaching normal.
I shake my head, not ready to explain dreams about Henri’s wisdom or my confusion about Iskander’s dual nature. “I don’t think that would help right now.”
He accepts my reluctance without argument. “Would you like me to stay until you fall back to sleep?”
The offer is what I need even though accepting it means admitting weakness. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all. The work I was doing can wait.” He settles beside me on top of the covers, close enough that I can hear his steady breathing but far enough away that I don’t feel crowded. His presence creates a buffer between me and the lingering anxiety from my dreams.
“Thank you.” I whisper into the darkness.
“Sleep, Willa. I’ll watch over you.” He brushes a kiss against my temple.
His promise wraps around me as snugly as his arms, and gradually, my body relaxes into the safety he provides.
Even as sleep claims me again, Henri’s voice continues offering guidance I’m no longer sure how to follow, while I consider the complexity of loving a man whose hands have created both violence and tenderness.