Page 23 of The Russian's Bought Bride

Initially, I expect him to argue and keep pressing, but he doesn’t. Instead, he responds, “Alright.”

I glance back at him, surprised, but I keep my mouth shut.

“You’ll stay here,” he adds, not unkindly but firmly as he throws another look my way. Despite meaning it, it seems more like he’d rather not continue this conversation. “For now.”

Regardless of softening his tone for me, that edge of control is still there, but I don’t have the energy to fight it right now. Not with everything else crashing down on me.

I bristle, yet don’t say a word more.

Because what else can I say?

I feel trapped and lost. Everything feels broken in a way I don’t know how to fix. For the first time ever, I feel completely alone, and I don’t know where to start.

Liam lingers for a second longer, like he wants to say something else, but he drops it. Then, he turns and walks toward the door.

“Get some rest,” he says again, almost like he might actually care.

This time, I don’t argue.

The door closes behind him, the soft click echoing louder than it should, and without ceremony, I’m alone again.

Curling in on myself slowly, I pull the blanket tighter around myself even though I’m not cold.

I don’t know what to do; I don’t know what’s real, and there’s nobody I can trust in this.

All I know is that my dad is gone, and I wasn’t there to help him through it.

A quiet, broken sound escapes me as I bury my face into the pillow while the weight of it all finally crushes whatever fragile control I had left.

I don’t know how to start putting myself back together.

Chapter 7 - Nikolai

It’s not in my nature to handle stillness when too many things are still unresolved. It leaves too much room for thought, and for things to creep in that I don’t have the time or patience for. I’m used to movement, concrete decisions, and more importantly, action.

Right now, I have none of it, and I feel more out of control than ever.

Danielle has been here for a few days now.

Several days of hiding behind a closed door, of not touching the food or clothes I’ve brought her, and silence that stretches longer than anything I’ve dealt with in years.

Standing in the kitchen, I lean back against the counter with my arms crossed as I stare at the plate in front of me. I sent one up last night for dinner. It was easy and simple, but something I assumed she might actually eat. Instead, I found it this morning untouched, just like the previous meal, and now, I’m debating bringing this one to her at all.

She’s drinking water…that much I know. But in terms of food, it hasn’t been nearly enough.

I exhale slowly and drag a hand down my face as more frustration courses through me, just like it has been nonstop recently.

I get it. I do.

Grief isn’t pretty, and it doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t care about logic or survival, or what the body needs to keep going. But understanding it doesn’t make it easier to deal with. It doesn’t make me any better at knowing what the hell I’m supposed to do about it either.

I’ve dealt with people in shock before, from victims to witnesses, and anyone else turned into collateral damage. You give them space, some direction, and eventually they stabilize enough to function.

This is different because she’s not just a victim. She’s here, in my space, under my roof, and there’s no separating myself from it like I normally would. Every instinct I have is telling me that one wrong move is going to make this worse.

Pushing off the counter with a deep breath, I pace once across the kitchen before stopping to glance briefly toward the hallway leading to the guest room.

The door is still closed, as expected.