“I had to learn with Vitaly. His mother was often absent. I did night feeds. Changed diapers. All of it.”
Her eyes meet mine at that sentence. Something in her relaxes a notch. She reaches up and wipes a spot of milk from Yuri’s cheek with her thumb, efficient and tender. “I was scared to bring them here. I’m still scared. But this place feels secure, and right now, I need that more than not feeling scared.”
“The doors are heavy. And so am I.”
“I noticed,” she says, dry, and I smile before I can stop myself. She looks at the bed and then at the chair. “You don’t sleep?”
“Later,” I say. “When I know everything is safe.”
“Control freak,” she says, not unkind.
“Survivor.”
“Sometimes you have to be a control freak to be a survivor,” she says.
I nod once, feeling the truth in her words.
Yuri sighs again and lets go, drifting deep into sleep. I hand him back. We walk into the nursery, and she sets him in the crib with a hand on his chest for the two seconds that keep him from startling. When she lifts her hand, he stays asleep.
We stand by the door and listen for a count of ten. Silence, except for the machine and the baby rhythm you only hear when you’re listening for it. She closes the door halfway and steps into the hall with me. Tanner looks past us, not at us. Good man.
“Thank you for the room next to theirs,” she says. “And for my mother’s room and…everything.”
“No thanks necessary.”
She looks past me at the dark end of the hall. “This house is too big.”
“It is.”
“I’m going to get lost,” she says.
“You’ll learn it faster than most. You see how things connect.”
“Compliment?” she asks.
“Yes.” I don’t add that I like how easily she moves between fear and humor. I don’t add that watching her hold a child is the most dangerous thing I’ve done in a decade.
“Good night,” she says, and her voice is softer but not weak.
“Good night.”
I walk back toward my room. I do not look over my shoulder. I don’t need to. I feel her step into her doorway and stand for one more breath before she goes to bed.
When I walk into my room, I close the door quietly and lean against it for a breath. Foolish of me to be moved by the sight of the mother of my children. Reckless, even. Fyodor would say I’m being irresponsible. My father would cuff the back of my head, at best.
I blink, and the image of her nightgown is seared in my brain.
This cannot be good.
9
MINA
I sitat the vanity with the lights set low. The mirror is too honest. It shows the thin line on my jaw where a thicker story lives. I trace it once with a clean fingertip, then stop touching it. Makeup first, memories later.
Or never, if I get a choice in the matter.
My mother stands behind me with a comb. She gathers my hair in her hands and starts to work on me. The rooms they gave us are neat and quiet. The boys are next door in the nursery with the monitor humming on the dresser. Outside the door, Roman’s men—Marcus and Tanner—speak in low voices and stop when they realize the sound carries.
