“Maybe one day you can say something to her if you want to.”
“Yeah. Maybe one day.”
Before we leave, I silently promise her the one thing I can.
I’ll keep him safe. I’ll love him well.
Funny how fast weeks can slip by.
And they do it in a sneaky sort of way, just a quiet accumulation of mornings and evenings, routines settling into place. Breakfasts where Sasha cuts his French toast or pancakes into little shapes before eating them. Afternoons spent coaxing color out of paint and shapes out of clay. Evenings where Romancomes home tired but present, listening to Sasha recount his day with the seriousness of a CEO listening to his board.
It doesn’t quite hit me how deeply I’ve sunk into this life until I find myself thinking about the mansion asourhouse and not just his. There’s no denying I’m more than just a nanny and art tutor here.
It’s one of those slow, lovely nights. Sasha’s laying on the couch in the sitting room, fire crackling. Roman’s reading some military history book, a glass of whiskey close at hand. I’m on my iPad, flipping through tomorrow’s lesson plan.
Sasha breaks the silence with a deep stretch and yawn.
“Sleepy, buddy?” I ask.
He nods. “Sleepy. Can we finish the snow painting tomorrow? I have a really good idea.”
“We sure can. And you know I’m all kinds of excited to hear about your ideas.”
He smiles sleepily. “It’s a secret.” He leans his head on the armrest, looking like he might doze off right there.
Roman throws back the rest of his drink, then sets it and his book on the little table next to his chair. “I’ll carry him up.”
I smile and nod, watching as Roman heads over to scoop up his son. Sasha curls into his father as Roman lovingly lifts him. His eyes flutter, then close, the safety of his father’s arms soothing. Roman rocks his son, holding him like he’s the most precious thing in the world. Then, as if he’d forgotten I was there, his gaze flicks to me.
Something passes between us. Something tender, warm.
“Can I come with you?” I ask. “To put him down.”
“Of course.”
I hurry to Roman’s side, walking beside him as he carries Sasha through the quiet, dark halls of the mansion. The guards are moving about here and there.
We soon reach Sasha’s room. I hang back by the doorway as Roman carries his son inside, gently placing him beneath the sheets. Once Sasha’s tucked in, Roman leans over and murmurs something in Russian—low, rhythmic, another lullaby he’s surely recited a hundred times before. He places a kiss on Sasha’s forehead before turning to me.
When he closes the door behind him, I look up at his face. “You’re going to spoil that kid.” I smile so he knows I’m teasing.
Roman snorts in amusement. “He’s five. Love is more important than any such concerns.” He casts his gaze down the hall. “Shall we retire?”
“We shall.”
Halfway down the hall, my stomach rolls, hard. I freeze.
“Amalie?” Roman asks, alert as he reads my body language.
“I—Just a second.”
I pull my hand free from his and hurry toward the nearest bathroom, barely making it before I’m gripping the sink, my breath shallow. I retch as my stomach clenches. Nothing comes up, but the nausea is so intense it blurs my vision.
After a few long moments, it goes away. I stand up straight, regarding my strangely worn expression in the mirror.
“Are you alright?” Roman asks from the doorway.
“Yeah. I guess something I ate didn’t agree with me.”
