Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“You like that one?” Samuil asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Me too.” He nods.
He takes it off the hook and brings it to the register, paying before I can reach for my wallet.
Outside, the air is cold enough to sting my cheeks. I hold the little hat in both hands, staring at it. It’s so unbelievably tiny, and in eight or so months, there will be a baby to wear it. How can anything so tiny and delicate even exist? How can I protect it?
“Are you okay?” Samuil asks, concern in his voice. “We can take it back and get something else if you’ve decided you don’t like it. Whatever you want.”
“No,” I protest. “It’s perfect. Today’s been perfect. I didn’t expect it to be like this.”
“Like what?”
“I…” I breathe slowly, trying to ground myself. “I thought that if I ever got to do this, I would be doing this all alone,” I finally admit. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel like I had a real family.”
He immediately steps into my orbit, watching me with a look so tender it makes my heart shatter.
“We are,” he says quietly. “We’re a family.”
I swallow hard and look down again because if I keep looking at him, I’m going to fall apart right there on the sidewalk.
In the car, the heater hums quietly, filling the space with warmth that seeps into my clothes and my bones. I settle into the seat and smooth my thumb over the tiny knitted hat resting in my lap. It shouldn’t make my chest ache the way it does, but something about holding it makes the baby feel so much more real.
Samuil keeps one hand on my thigh, his thumb stroking absentmindedly back and forth. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, but the steady repetition calms the last of the nerves rattling through me. The movement is gentle and protective in a way that catches me off guard. I’m not used to anyone offering me comfort without expecting something in return.
The motion of the car, the warm air, and the emotional crash from the appointment blend together until my body loosens its grip on the tension I’ve been holding. I lean toward him without thinking, resting my head on his shoulder. For a second he goes still, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull back. When I don’t, he tilts his head just enough that his temple brushes my hair. His hand tightens slightly on my thigh, a quiet acknowledgment of the shift between us.
13
SAMUIL
Ithought hearing my child’s heartbeat would settle something in me, calm me, and ground me. I expected to feel so much joy and relief that nothing else would matter. Instead, the exact opposite happened.
I am happy, of course, but I also realize how dangerous this world is for a child. I think of how restrictive my own childhood was. My father was a ruthless pakhan, and he had a lot of enemies. He kept me in a bubble until I was old enough to learn how to fight for myself.
It’s terrifying not knowing what could happen to my child, knowing that anything could hurt him or her. It fills me with a fierce, unrelenting need to protect them. As soon as we get home, I realize that I’m not doing nearly enough to keep Molly safe. Her attacker is probably still looking for her.
I’m not a calm man on the best of days, but since that appointment, it’s like the whole world has narrowed down to two people: Molly and our child. The idea of anyone hurting either one of them sends me into a murderous rage. I can’t allow anything to happen to them, ever.
Over the next few days, much to Molly’s annoyance, I tighten the security around her. She can’t leave the apartment without me or a guard. I install a camera outside her room, even though she’s been spending most nights in mine. I assign a dedicated team ready to jump in if anything seems amiss. I insist she wear a bracelet with a tracking device inside it, just as an extra safeguard.
I know it’s too much. I can hear it in her voice every time she says, “Samuil, I need space,” “You can’t watch me every second,” or “You’re driving me insane.”
But I can’t help it. I’ve tried. I keep telling myself to take a step back. To breathe. To remember that she’s a grown woman who’s survived far worse than anything I can shield her from.
Then I remember how I found her in that alley. I remember how her attacker would have killed her, or worse, if I hadn’t intervened. I think of his hand in her hair, of him slapping her across the face, and every rational thought burns away. Until he’s found, I can’t let her out of my sight.