Page 138 of Cruel Submission

I hear the melody, and something catches in my chest. Not pain, exactly. Not anymore. Just the ache of absence sitting next to the fullness of what I have.

Aleks runs up the terrace steps, sweating, grass-stained, grinning. “Papa, can we have pizza tonight?”

“Ask your mother.”

“She said ask you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Did she?”

He nods, his expression pure innocence. The kid is lying. He hasn’t asked Mirabel. He came straight to me because he knows I’m easier. Smart. Devious. Definitely mine.

“Pizza,” I concede. “But you eat salad first.”

“Deal!” He’s gone before I can attach conditions, shouting the news to Sara and Mila. A small riot of celebration erupts on the lawn.

Mirabel appears at my elbow, Sara’s juice box now empty, a knowing look on her face. “He didn’t ask me, did he?”

“Nyet.”

“And you caved.”

“Immediately.”

She laughs—full and bright and reckless—and the sound rolls through me the way it always does.

“Ty moya zhizn’,” I tell her quietly. You are my life. I say it in Russian because some things sit better in the language I grew up bleeding in. English is for business, for precision. Russian is for truth.

She rises on her toes and kisses me. Not long, not urgent—just firm and warm, her hand resting on my chest where she can feel my pulse.

“I know,” she whispers against my lips. “You’re mine too.”

Later, after pizza and bath time, I stand in the hallway outside the children’s rooms. The house is settling into the thick, lived-in quiet of a home that’s been thoroughly exhausted by small humans.

I check on them. Every night. Aleks sleeps on his stomach, one arm hanging off the bed, mouth open. Sara curls into a tight ball, blankets pulled to her chin, a stuffed rabbit crushed against her chest. The twins sleep tangled together in the same crib they’ve refused to outgrow, Arty’s hand wrapped around Adrik’s wrist as if making sure his brother can’t escape.

I stand there longer than I need to.

Down the hall, I hear Yanis’s low voice through a closed door, reading to Mika. Debra’s quiet laughter drifts out.

We all live here. Under one roof. The mansion that once felt like a mausoleum now overflows with noise and mess and the constant, blessed chaos of seven children, four adults, and a staffing situation that I don’t try to understand.

Mirabel is in our bed when I walk in, reading something on her tablet. She looks up. Smiles.

I close the door.

“Everyone down?”

“Out cold. Arty’s holding Adrik hostage again.”

She sets the tablet aside and pulls the covers back. An invitation. A demand. Both, knowing my wife.

I strip down, slide in beside her, and pull her against me. She fits. She always fits—her back against my chest, her feet tangled with mine.

“Arkady?”

“Mm.”

“You were quiet tonight. After dinner.” Her fingers trace patterns on my forearm. Not probing. Just making space for me to talk if I want to.