Chapter 24 #2
"I'm fine," I told her, fingers threading through the fur at her neck. "Misha, I'm just—a little nervous."
She made a soft whine, like she was trying to comfort me.
I stroked her head, over and over. The repetitive motion calmed me a bit.
Okay.
Try again.
I picked up the ruler again. This time my hands were steadier.
Measure, cut, mark.
Mechanical, repetitive movements, but at least—at least my attention was somewhat diverted.
Not just staring at the clock, waiting for that call.
The study door opened.
Sergei came out and glanced at the materials spread across the table.
"What are you doing?"
"Making clothes for Misha," I said, holding up the cut piece of fabric. "New vest."
"You're making it yourself?"
"Of course," I said. "I'm a designer."
He sat across from me, just watching.
That gaze made me more nervous.
My hands started shaking again. I almost cut crooked.
"You..." I looked up. "Don't you have work to do?"
"Finished," he said. "Just a few emails."
"Oh, okay."
I looked back down.
He was still watching.
"Sergei," I finally couldn't take it. "If you keep staring at me, I'll get nervous."
"You're already nervous," he pointed out. "You've been like this since we left the hospital."
My hands stilled.
"I'm not—"
"You are," he said. "Ella, what's going on?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just anxious waiting for results."
He looked at me, those gray eyes holding something that saw through everything.
"Just anxious?"
"Yes," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Who isn't anxious waiting for test results?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Alright," he said. "Then I'll help. Maybe it'll distract you."
"You?"
"What," he raised an eyebrow, "don't trust me?"
"Absolutely not," I said, but my mouth curved up slightly despite myself. "You can't even fry an egg properly."
"Making clothes isn't like frying eggs," he said, picking up a piece of fabric. "What do I do with this?"
I looked at him, and finally couldn't help smiling.
"Fine," I said, pushing the fabric toward him. "Help me pull out the loose threads along the edge. Follow the grain, take it slow. Don't break them."
He took it and started working carefully.
Movements slow, clumsy, but serious.
I watched him with his head bent, and the tightness in my chest loosened a little.
Good.
Focus on this.
Don't think about that call.
I picked up the needle and thread again and started sewing.
One stitch, another, through the fabric, pull tight, knot.
The living room grew quiet.
Just the sound of scissors sliding through fabric, the soft whisper of needle and thread, and Misha's snoring as she dozed.
Snow still fell outside, but inside was warm.
Gradually, my breathing steadied.
My hands stopped shaking.
Even my heartbeat slowed.
I could actually focus on the garment in front of me—thinking about how to adjust the neckline curve, whether the sleeve length needed tweaking.
Before I knew it, half an hour had passed.
Outside, the sky started darkening.
Sergei stood and went to build a fire in the fireplace.
I watched him crouch in front of it, expertly stacking the logs, lighting the kindling.
Flames leapt up, illuminating his profile in soft light.
Those usually hard lines looked—
Looked almost young in that orange-red glow.
Like time had rewound, letting me see him at twenty-something.
I was suddenly curious.
"Sergei," I said.
"Yeah?" He returned to the sofa, picked up the fabric again.
"What were you like as a kid?"
He looked up, slightly surprised. "Why the sudden question?"
"Just now, watching you build the fire," I said. "The light made you look so much younger. Made me wonder what you were like as a kid."
He thought for a moment, mouth quirking up.
"Skinny," he said. "Hair was silver too, but lighter, like platinum."
"Must've been cute."
"No," he said. "Ugly. Other kids made fun of me, said I looked like an old man."
I couldn't help laughing. "And now?"
"And now what?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Now you're definitely..."
"Definitely what?"
"Definitely handsome," I said. "In that old-man kind of way."
"Ella Collins," he said. "You're taking advantage of me."
"I'm telling the truth," I said. "And what did you do as a kid?"
He looked down, kept pulling at threads.
"Played street hockey with the neighborhood kids, sat in on family meetings, and—" he paused. "And went with my mother to her studio."
The needle in my hand stopped.
"Studio?"
"She was a fashion designer," he said. "Had her own studio in St. Petersburg. Not big, but locally well-known."
"So you'd go there as a kid?"
"When I had nowhere else to go," he said. "Father was in meetings, the nanny couldn't handle me, so Mother would take me to the studio."
"What was it like?" I set down my work, turned toward him, completely drawn in.
"Small," he said, eyes holding a certain nostalgia. "Second floor of an old building. Push open the door, fabric everywhere—piled on tables, hanging on racks, spread on the floor. Sewing machine in the corner, always humming."
"Sounds messy."
"Very messy," he admitted. "But she could always find what she needed in that chaos. A specific shade of silk, a button she'd bought three months earlier."
I could picture it—the tiny studio, fabric and spools everywhere, a woman moving through it all, knowing exactly where everything was.
"Did you help her?"
"Got in the way," his mouth curved. "When I was seven or eight, I watched her make gloves, thought it looked easy, said I wanted to try."
"And?"
"Used up an entire bolt of her imported wool," he said. "Ended up with nothing but a mess of tangled thread."
I couldn't help laughing. "Was she angry?"
"No," he said, voice growing softer. "She gathered up that tangled mess, said one day she'd frame it and hang it on the studio wall as her son's first creation."
My smile slowly faded.
"Later, is she still in St. Petersburg?"
"No," he said. "She went to Paris."
I waited for him to continue, but he just looked down, refocusing on the fabric in his hands.
I didn't push.
But I could sense—behind that topic lay many things he didn't want to touch.
"Misha," I changed direction. "Did she come around that time?"
His hands stilled.
"No," he said. "Third year after I became pakhan, Mother sent her."
I was surprised. "Third year?"
"Yes. There was a rebellion in the family then.
I personally dealt with a lot of people.
" The firelight flickered across half his face while the other half fell into shadow, expression unreadable.
"She said I was becoming like Father, that for power, I'd chosen hatred and bloodshed, and eventually I'd turn into a cold-blooded man. "
"So she sent Misha, hoping she'd remind me there was still warmth inside me."
"I haven't seen her since."
The living room went quiet.
Just the soft crackle of logs in the fireplace.
I set down the needle and thread, moved closer to him.
"She was wrong," I said.
He turned to look at me.
"She said you'd become cold-blooded," I said. "But Sergei, a cold-blooded person doesn't raise a dog for ten years."
"Doesn't kick down doors and rush in when I'm most scared," I continued. "Doesn't—doesn't sit here with me now, making dog clothes."
Something moved in his eyes.
"Ella."
"You're not a monster," I said, gripping his hand. "I know you've done terrible things, but the you I see is someone who protects the people he loves."
He pulled me into his arms.
Not forcefully, but steady.
"You're the first person who's ever seen me that way," he said, voice rumbling in his chest.
"Then I'm honored," I said.
He didn't answer, just held me tighter.
I leaned against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Steady. Strong.
In that moment—
I suddenly realized I wasn't nervous anymore.
Or rather, not as nervous as before.
That sword hanging over my head seemed pushed back a little by these mundane, warm moments.
Then my phone vibrated.
The hospital's number.
My heart clenched hard.
"Answer it," Sergei glanced at my screen.
I took a deep breath and answered.
"Miss Collins? This is Rachel Levinson, about your test—" My hands started shaking.
"I'm terribly sorry, the blood analyzer malfunction is more serious than we anticipated.
The technician just informed me the equipment cannot be repaired today, needs replacement parts.
Your blood test results won't be available until tomorrow. If you'd like, I can—"
"No need," I almost blurted out. "No need, tomorrow's fine, thank you."
"Then tomorrow at ten a.m., we'll call with your results. Again, my apologies."
"It's okay, thank you."
I hung up.
My hand still shook.
"What happened?" Sergei looked at me.
"Machine broke," I said. "Blood results won't be ready until tomorrow."
His brow furrowed immediately. He reached for his phone. "I'll call—"
"Don't," I grabbed his hand. "Sergei, really, don't. Results will be here tomorrow anyway, one more day won't matter."
He didn't speak, just looked at me.
Those gray eyes held something I couldn't quite read, but that gaze rested on my face like it was trying to see through something.
I didn't look away, just met his eyes, trying to keep my expression calm.
The silence lasted several seconds.
He put his phone away. "Fine. Tomorrow."
I breathed out in relief.
One more day.
But this time felt different.
Not that panicked feeling of being led to execution.
But a kind of acceptance.
Had to face it eventually anyway.
Tomorrow it is.
I leaned back on the sofa, watching the flames dance in the fireplace.
Sergei sat beside me, hand covering mine.
"Ella," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Whatever tomorrow's results are," he said, "I'll be right here with you."
I turned to look at him.
Those gray eyes held only sincerity now.
"I know," I said, voice steadier than expected. "Sergei, I know."
He pulled me into his arms.
I leaned against his chest, closed my eyes.
Firelight flickered, stretching our shadows long across the floor, overlapping.
Misha padded over, rested her head on Sergei's foot, sighed, and closed her eyes.
Snow still fell outside.
And in his arms, I drifted off without realizing it.