Oleg’s face remains impassive. “Mr. Belov is still away. He’ll return when necessary.”
I recognize the non-answer for what it is. Of course Oleg wouldn’t tell me Konstantin’s actual whereabouts. Security protocol. Need-to-know basis. And apparently, I don’t need to know.
Relief floods through me, anyway. At least I don’t have to pretend everything’s normal with him tonight. I need time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about Irina without watching every word, every facial expression for signs of suspicion.
I smooth my skirt in a gesture that feels absurdly normal, given the circumstances. My heartbeat is a drum solo in my chest. My stomach’s tied in knots that would make a sailor weep.
I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a soft click that somehow sounds like a prison cell locking.
Dramatic much, Bella?
I’m halfway across the foyer when I hear it—the unmistakable sound of small feet barreling down the hallway. The thunder of tiny Nike sneakers against marble.
“BELLA!”
Two boys hit me like a hurricane. The stockier one slams into me first—all energetic force and tousled hair—followed closely by his slightly taller, leaner twin, who approaches with more restraint but equal enthusiasm.
I take in their faces, cataloging the differences I’ve been mentally tracking like survival skills. The one with the intense, fiery gray-blue eyes and perpetually rumpled clothes—Lev. The one with the calmer gaze and neatly combed hair—Nikolai. Twelve years old and fraternal, but similar enough that I still find myself double-checking the details.
“Whoa!” I laugh, the sound half-startled out of me. “What’s the emergency?”
“You’re late,” Nikolai says, his tone more serious than his brother’s despite his slight smile. “And Lev messed up his science project.”
“I didn’t mess it up,” Lev protests, already tugging at my hand with the confidence of someone who assumes everyone will follow. “The stupid glue didn’t work.”
“You’re just stupid.”
“I’m not!” Lev gives a full-body flail of indignation, shoving his twin’s shoulder with all the righteous fury a 12-year-old can muster. “You didn’t eventryto help, Nik!”
Nikolai shrugs, unbothered. “Wasn’t my rocket ship.”
I glance between them, momentarily grateful for the distraction from the storm inside my head. My gaze catches on Lev’s frustrated expression, that fierce look so reminiscent of his father’s intensity but without the coldness.
“Let me see the damage,” I say, letting him pull me toward the kitchen.
Halfway there, a small figure appears in the doorway—sandy blonde hair in perfect braids and a practical outfit of leggings paired with a sparkly jacket. Alya, arms crossed, hip cocked to one side with a book tucked under her elbow like it’s a business proposal she’s about to pitch.
“You’re reading to me tonight,” she announces, not a question but a statement of fact. Her eyes sparkle with the confidence of someone who expects to be obeyed.
It hits me suddenly—how quickly they’ve gotten used to me being here. How easily they’ve folded me into their lives.
Temporary. This is all temporary.
But looking at Alya’s determined little face, I can’t bring myself to say no.
“After dinner,” I say, matching her tone with a firmness of my own.
She narrows her eyes, assessing whether this compromise is acceptable. Then she gives a decisive nod.
“Fine. But with the voices. And I get to choose which book.”
“Deal.”
She watches us for another moment, as if making sure we’re all properly supervised, then marches off, presumably to select her reading material.
The kitchen is chaos.
The marble island is covered with newspaper, craft supplies, and what looks like the remnants of a solar system massacre. Planets of varying sizes lie in disarray, some half-painted, others missing chunks where the papier mâché has crumbled.
