Page 136 of Betrayal and Vows

I'm going to be sick. The thought of Mikhail's eyes on us during our most intimate moments makes bile rise in my throat.

"He told me..." Anton's voice drops to barely a whisper. "He said he'd already been with you. This morning. Before the wedding."

The world tilts. "What?"

"He said you came to him. Begged him. That you—" Anton can't finish.

"No." The word explodes from me with such force that Anton jerks back. "No, never. I never touched him. Not once. He's lying."

Relief floods Anton's features, but I can see the lingering doubt, the way Mikhail's poison has wormed its way into his mind.

"I swear to you on my grandmother's grave," I say, grabbing his face with my good hand. "I have never been with him. Never. The only man I've ever want, ever loved, is you."

"I know," he breathes. "I know, but hearing him say it?—"

"He's a monster," I whisper. "And monsters lie."

He returns his attention to the box, picking up another photo. He stares at it for a long time. “This was just before.”

He doesn’t have to tell me just before what.

I know.

The boy in the picture looks around five.

So young.

So innocent.

To know that beautiful boy had nearly been murdered at his father’s hands infuriates me. I want to pull him close and fight every demon for him.

“There are no pictures of Vadim,” he says.

“Did you expect there to be?”

"No," he says quietly. "He was never part of our life. Even before he tried to kill us."

I watch him sort through more photographs. His mother pregnant, glowing with happiness. A baby's first steps. Birthday parties with other children I don't recognize. A life that was stolen from him.

"She kept everything," I whisper.

"Your mother did this. She preserved it all." His voice cracks slightly. "Why?"

I think about my mother's words. Her cryptic comments about having faith. The way she lowered her gun and let us go.

"Because she loved you," I say simply. "She loved your mother, and she loved you."

He picks up the crocheted angel, turning it over in his scarred hands. One wing is torn, hanging by a thread.

"My mother made this for me when I was sick once. Fever that wouldn't break." His thumb traces the remaining wing. "She said angels watched over little boys who were brave."

My heart shatters completely. This man has been carrying so much pain, so much loss. And somehow, he still found room in his heart for love.

For me.

"You are brave," I tell him. "The bravest man I've ever known."

He sets the angel down carefully and reaches for the music box. When he opens it, a tinkling melody begins to play. Russian lullaby. The notes are broken, some keys missing, but it's hauntingly beautiful.