“Avros Dubovich.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. I don’t think he needs to. The words land with enough intensity that my soul shivers.
“I know it’s you,” I finally say, my meaning clear. “What took you so long?”
His head swivels to face me, surprise and humor flicking over his features.
“I was waiting until you were ready.”
I can hear the accent now, light underneath the American. His dark hair is more salt at the temples than pepper, and it stretches down into his short beard. He looks distinguished, not like the type of man who would kill someone and stuff them into a suitcase before driving out of town.
I suppose that’s the way it is, though. Murderers don’t look like monsters. And murderer or not, I don’t feel scared of him right now, not like I was when I opened my door and found John on the other side of it.
“Ready for what?” I ask, pulling a hair from the sleeve of his coat and lowering the window to let the wind snatch it away.
His answer is short and to the point, sending my stomach into a frenzy of butterflies.
“Ready to be claimed.”
Avros
The gates to the family estate recognize the car and open without hesitation. Emma watches them slide apart, her reflection pale in the windshield, eyes sharp but steady.
She hasn’t asked where we’re going, which tells me she already knows or she doesn’t care.
I park near the converted barn instead of the main house. The lights come on automatically, washing over weathered wood and clean glass, the structure restored into something purposeful instead of decorative. I asked Yury for it the day after I first saw Emma, and I’ve been restoring it bit by bit ever since. His directive to find a wife and breed her came just as the last lick of paint was drying on the freshly plastered walls. It felt like it was a sign.
No one else would do for me.
She gets out of the car carefully, favoring her bad ankle. I move around the car and hook one arm behind her knees and the other behind her back, before lifting her cradle style into my arms.
“This is our home,” I say, carrying her to the door and manoeuvring carefully to open it without letting her go.
Her gaze tracks the length of the barn, taking in the wide doors, the upper windows glowing softly, the quiet isolation of it. It’s private. Safe and separate, not just from my family, but from the outside world.
She exhales slowly. “You planned this.”
“Yes,” I say without softening it. There’s no point pretending this is anything other than what it is. “Every part of it, apart from your ex-boss.”
Inside, the space opens into warmth and clean lines. Stone floors. Wooden beams. A living space that doesn’t feel tight or claustrophobic. A mezzanine where our bedroom can be found. A bathroom beyond that. Everything chosen deliberately. Nothing excessive. Much like her apartment, just bigger in the places that needed more space.
I lower her slowly, letting her find her balance before taking my arms reluctantly from her.
She takes a couple of steps, craning her neck to look around, cautiously alert, ready to adapt.
I close the door behind us. The sound is final without being threatening.
She turns to face me, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies me, like she’s finally allowing herself to see the whole picture.
“You picked out styles you knew I liked,” she says, her voice wary. She looks past me, her eyes landing on the one part of this house that’s just for me.
Her.
Oil on canvas, mid leap during Swan Lake.
The first night I saw her.
I was on a date with a woman who would have been a good match for me. For my family. But the moment I saw Emma, I knew no one else would do.
“Oh,” she says, the timeline clicking into place for her. “The roses, the yellow ones…?”
