Sasha’s already at the long breakfast table, swinging his legs under the chair as he carefully cuts his pancakes into perfect squares, a glass of orange juice close at hand. Andrei is seated in his usual corner, theChicago Tribunein his hands, a mug of black coffee nearby. He pulls the paper down just enough to see it’s me before returning to his reading.
“Good morning, little man,” I say.
Sasha gives me a little pursed-mouth smile in return, as if not quite sure how to relate to me just yet. We had a blast yesterday—tons of drawing, playing, and napping. But it was only one day. If we’re going to build the kind of relationship he needs in his life, it will take many good days.
I slide into the seat next to him. He doesn’t bristle—that’s a good sign. He’s dressed in a tiny tennis polo.
“I like your outfit,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “You look like a little country-club owner.”
“It’s tennis,” he says. “Papa says I have to win today.”
“Is that so?” I ask with a smile.
He nods. “Yep. Because if I don’t, Coach Viktor will make me run again. And I hate running.”
“That sounds motivating.”
A familiar presence enters the room. The air tightens.
Roman moves like he doesn’t just own the house, but also the people inside of it. My stomach tenses at the sight of him. He steps over to Sasha, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his curls.
“I’m ready to win today, Papa.”
“Winning is important,” Roman replies. “Very important. But what I want to see is discipline, heart. Which are much, much more important.”
Sasha nods, sitting up a little straighter. My heart tingles at the sight of him with Sasha. I can tell the tenderness he shows to his son is something the rest of the world never sees.
Roman’s gaze flicks to me. Just for a heartbeat, but a heartbeat is more than long enough.
I look away first.
One of the members of the staff comes in and announces it’s time for tennis. Sasha takes one last bite, then hurries out of the room. The moment he disappears down the hall, the temperature of the room shifts. It’s not cold or uncomfortable, just different.
“Tennis?” I ask.
“We have a court in the back. Heated during winter.”
Of course.
“Come with me,” Roman says. His tone makes it clear it’s not a suggestion.
Shit.Are we having the talk now? Better to get it out of the way, I suppose.
“Andrei, please accompany Sasha to the courts.”
“Of course.” He rises calmly, folds his paper, and takes one slow sip of his coffee before leaving.
Roman and I are alone. Memories of last night come rushing back—the way his fingers felt inside me, the way he squeezed my breast as he made me come, the command from him that sent me over the edge…
“Come. This way.”
He crosses the room in long strides, holding the door for me once he’s out in the hallway. I have no idea where we’re going. He leads me through the side corridor, past the wine storage, to an unmarked panel I would’ve never noticed on my own. He presses his thumb to a concealed reader. Adingsounds and the wall opens with a whisper.
The room beyond stops me cold. The lighting is low and cool, built into the ceiling. The walls are polished wood. There are a few comfortable chairs and what looks to be a small storage area with canned food and bottled water.
I step inside, placing my fingertips against the wall of hard steel, probably a foot thick. Along one wall is a command consolecomplete with controls and monitors. On the screens I can see just about every angle of the house. The room feels like the command center of a spaceship or futuristic submarine, totally sealed off from the outside world.
I realize what it is after a moment’s study. “A panic room?”
