“Bed,” I order.
Her brow puckers.
“You need to rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“I’ll just take some of those from you first.”
Another shake of my head. “You need rest. Get in the bed.”
“So bossy,” she murmurs as she moves to the bed. She sits on the edge before grinning and swinging her legs onto it. She lets her head fall back against my pillow. A soft sigh leaves her as exhaustion pulls at her face.
“Better.”
I open my dresser and hand her one of my T-shirts. “So, you won’t need to unpack. Because you need to rest right now. I’ll have someone bring you dinner.”
“You don’t have…” Her words drift away at my stern expression. “Thank you, Viktor.”
I drop her bags by my dresser and nod. Queenie meows softly, stretching from where she’s lounging on the windowsill. Then with one more quick glance, I move out the door and down the hall.
Taking the steps two at a time, I make my way back down to the rec room, my stomach twisting with the worry that the men haven’t taken my threat seriously.
“Youdo it,” I hear one of them say as I approach.
“No,youdo it.”
There’s a collective groan just as I round the door into the rec room. I lean against the doorframe and watch as one of the men grimaces, holding Leon at arm’s length and with the diaper bag slung over his shoulder.
Leon’s coos turn into sniffles.
“Hurry up!” one of the men pleads, shooing the other forward faster with a wave of his hands.
“Aww, how come I have to do this?”
“Because you lost.”
“Let’s go another round. I’m begging you.Please?”
“Fuck, no.”
My head cocks to the side as I gaze at Leon. I don’t get it. How could anyone dress a kid who does nothing but scream bloody murder and poop all the time in a T-shirt that readsLittle Angel? Maybe Leon’s parents just aren’t aware of how awful his daily behavior really is. Or how un-angelictheir kid actually is.Because aren’t angels supposed to be above pooping and all that stuff?
At least Sofia seems happy for now. She’s found a pack of playing cards and is examining them and sorting them into piles. My brow arches. Sofia might be cute, but her outfit can only be described as a pink monstrosity. Pink shorts, a pink tee with some stupid cartoonfamily of pigs on it, and her hair held in two pigtails with offensively bright pink hair-ties with little pink sparkles woven into them.There should be a goddamn law against wearing so much god-awful pink in one fucking day.
And I grumble under my breath as everything starts to make my anxiety rise. I fight the urge to bolt from the room entirely. It’s an assault on my senses. Too much of everything. Too much crying and too many bright colors. Why the hell can’t people just dress their kids inall black? I’ve found black to be the most unobtrusive and calming color which is why I never wear anything else.
A breath pushes through my teeth as I mark a score in my small notebook. I’m only at seven out of ten.I’m fine. This is fine. I can do this.I just need to try and stay calm so that my sensory stress doesn’t escalate.
A string of curses drags my attention back to the men and Leon. One has his nose buried in the crook of his arm as he gingerly holds a soiled diaper like it’s a ticking time bomb. My nose wrinkles as the smell wafts toward me, but it’s the wailing that makes me wince.
It grows louder and louder as the men scramble to distract Leon and deal with the diaper. They grumble and argue before lifting up a freshly changed baby. But the crying still doesn’t stop.
What the fuck was I thinking? Inviting them to the Kremlin again like I had any business offering to help take care of two kids. Me, of all people. I drag my hand through my hair. The wailing only gets louder.
This is a fucking mistake.
And any lingering whispers in the back of my head about relationships and having a family evaporate into fucking thin air. Why the hell did I even consider being alone a bad thing? This right here is the reason why my life has to be a certain way. Because relationships bring all sorts of issues, especially when they also involve kids. More responsibilities, more noise, and a ton of obnoxiously bright colors to overstimulate me.
And then there’s the whole touching bullshit. A partner or kid would want to touch me. The feel of Avelina’s hand lingers from when she laid her fingers on my arm, and I’m not sure I like it because itmakes me feel all sorts of…strange. Part of me wants to be the man who can comfort Sofia when she’s scared, who can hold Leon without flinching, who can touch Avelina’s face and tell her everything will be okay. But that’s not who I am. That’s not who I can ever be. And it’s yet another reason I should just embrace the fact that relationships are definitely not for me.
