“The guy who asked me about where you and Maisie were that one night when you went for a walk.”
Went for a walk.
Right.
That was what I’d told her I’d done after Roman went to question her in the search.
“They paid your tuition off?”
She nodded, filling me in about all that Roman said. I would continue to let Daria believe that it was a misunderstanding that had Roman talking to her that night I’d escaped. I didn’t want her to know I was living with Fitz’s killer. I didn’t want her to know I was with a man I would need to escape.
He must have done it to show he cares.
I hadn’t asked him to do that good deed.
The following day, George and other soldiers arrived with my things from my place. Even though the apartment was still there, vacant and paid for by Sergei and available, I knew better than to think I should walk out of here and return to my former life. I saw how I would suffer if I tried to. I would put myself and Maisie at risk of being captured. And I’d risk upsetting my daughter who was attached to this place and these people.
The symbolism of my apartment mattered. By letting me keep it, even in name, albeit as a useless space I didn’t live in, Sergei wasn’t literally forcing me to live here with no other choices.
The arrival of my things mattered, too.
Maisie had talked to Sergei about a collection of small horse figurines that she had in a box in her closet, and that was what prompted the delivery of our possessions. Sergei interpreted her talking about them as a request for what she missed and was familiar with. So, he had George and the others go get the stuff.
Seeing my personal things touched me. It wasn’t a complete bridge between my former life and whatever this new version was supposed to be. But it prompted me to react with sentiment.
Sergei didn’t need to care. He didn’t have to go out of his way to honor my past like this. To respect that I had a life before him.
When I saw my framed wedding photos in the box, it struck me as a sign that Sergei wasn’t trying to sweep away any memories of Fitz. He wasn’t campaigning to make me forget about the man he’d accidentally killed.
The gesture was unexpected, and with his act of kindness, it was that much more difficult to hate him. That much more challenging to resist him.
Harder yet was how Maisie continued to seek him out as a source of comfort and friendship. She asked him to color with her. She’d request that he play a game with her after dinner.
And I never stopped her. Guilt hit me whenever I thought back to how I’d set us up to be captured. That had been my rash mistake, my fault when I was the one who should always protect her.
While it was deeply ironic to watch her grow closer to the man who killed her father, I tested myself to change my outlook. That he wasn’t only Fitz’s murderer but also the strong man who protected my baby girl.
“Mister Sergei, it’s your turn,” she told him while they were playing a board game.
I stood at the windows, giving them their space and time to play. As I tore my gaze from the cityscape and glanced at them, I caught him watching me. That same patient, hungry, but solemn interest burned in his blue eyes. Unwaveringly.
I pivoted to look away again.
“Your turn, Mister Sergei,” Maisie said again.
I sighed, crumbling at how she only grew more attached to him.
Life wasn’t black and white where he was concerned.
This nagging indecision of how I could take Claire’s advice and move forward with him ate away at me.
How can I forgive you for having a part in taking away the man I thought I’d grow old with? The peaceful and gentle father of my daughter?
How am I supposed to hate you forever when you once hinted at so much hope for new love?
27
SERGEI
