"Christmas is the worst time to be the child of an alcoholic," she whispers, looking at the sawdust-covered snow. "The pressure is so high. It could go from good to horrific in seconds. One wrong word. One spilled drink. And the tree ends up on the floor, and you spend the night hiding in the closet." A tremor runs through her. “I learned not to get excited. Excitement was dangerous."
I reach out, brushing a snowflake from her cheek. She flinches before she can stop herself. "My father was not an alcoholic," I say.. "He never lost control. Control was his religion." I look past her. "He ruled us with an iron fist. He didn't raise children, Aria. He raised soldiers. If we cried, we ran laps in the snow. If we complained, we went without dinner. Holidays were just days to demonstrate discipline. We sat at the table in suits, silent, while he lectured us on duty."
I look back at her. "He made us what we are today. Lethal. Efficient. Unbreakable. But I do not remember a single moment of joy."
I frame her face with my hands, forcing her to look at me. To see me, not the ghosts. "We are not them. I am not my father. And you are not a victim anymore. We build our own house."
"Can we?" she asks, her voice trembling. "Or are we just faking something neither of us believe in?"
The question grates. "I do not fake things, Aria."
"We're strangers, Igor. Strangers playing house."
"We are husband and wife," I correct, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. Heat rises under her skin. "And this..." I gesture to the pathetic tree. "This comes home with us."
The drive back is quiet.
My hand rests on her thigh. She doesn't push it away, but she doesn't relax into it either. She stares out the window, lost in her head.
"You know," I say, breaking the silence. "There is another way to ensure we are not 'faking' it."
She glances at me.
"Children."
Her hand goes to her stomach. "We didn’t talk about this. Didn’t…"
"We’re married. In every way…" I steal a look at her profile but she’s turned away from me. Watching the scenery, giving me nothing. “So…”
"So, it's soon," she says. "Igor, we’ve been married less than twenty-four hours. We barely know how to be a couple. And with your... business..."
“My business is not a factor.” I grind out through my clenched jaw.
"Fine,” she says in a huff. “But I still want to know that this works first. I want to know that I’m safe. That we are safe."
I squeeze her thigh hard enough to leave a mark. "You still think I would let you go?”
"I think you are not a warden and I’m not a prisoner."
My silence answers her, and I let her make of that what she will. There is no situation where I’d give her up. That plants a small rock in my belly. It doesn’t twist or rumble; it just sits there. Waiting for me to figure out what it means because the fuck if I know. She’s right. I just married her yesterday, and today… "I make no promises other than this; I take care of my own. That includes you and any children we have."
She turns away again, looking out the window, but I see the heat rise at the tips of her ears.
We’re laughing when we walk through the front door. I’m carrying the top half of the damn tree, shaking snow off my coat, while Aria struggles with a bag of ornaments Galina insisted we buy. She’s teasing me about getting sap on my cashmere. For the first time, the foyer doesn't feel like a museum.
Then they're there. My mood blackens instantly. My brothers stand in the grand entryway. Big. Radiating the same lethal energy I do, but with none of the discipline. Both with the same dark Aslanov hair and near-black eyes. Ivan leans against the banister, grinning like a wolf. Illya stands next to him, arms crossed. "Well, well," Ivan drawls. "Igor’s back. And he brought a souvenir."
I drop the tree. It hits the marble with a thud.
"Ivan," I say dryly. "Illya. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You didn't tell us," Ivan says, pushing off the banister. He eyes Aria with blatant curiosity. "We had to hear it from Babushka."
"She talks too much," I say.
"She said you finally locked it down," Illya says, shaking his head. "We thought she was losing her mind. So we came to see for ourselves. And here you are, the head of the Aslanov family. Carrying a tree like some love-struck idiot on the street. Smiling. When’s the last time he smiled, Illya?"
“The last week of never.”
