Page 149 of Ivory Ashes

“I’m not Alyona, Mikhail. And Dante isn’t?—”

“Don’t!” he roars, rounding on me.

I gasp and fall back against the closed door. Mikhail freezes, regret flickering across his face before he can hide it. He drags a hand through his hair and spins away from me.

“If there is something I don’t understand, then tell me,” I beg. “Fill me in. I’d love to be right there with you making decisions. That’s what a marriage is.”

He snorts derisively. “This has never been a real marriage.”

If I hadn’t already spent the last two days sobbing, I’d probably cry. As it is, I’m all dried up.

“No, I guess not,” I breathe. “But it could be. If we let ourselves feel what I know we’re both feeling, then this could be the realest thing I’ve ever—” I clear my throat, choking down a sob.

Mikhail is a statue in the middle of the room. His shoulders rise and fall with his breathing, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

I take a step closer and reach for him. My fingers whisper across his shoulder blade. “We’ll never be a family if you send him away.”

Mikhail jerks to life. He spins to face me, blue eyes wild. “We won’t be a family if Dante is dead. He’ll be safer in Russia. That’s all I want.”

“Trofim wasn’t safe there,” I point out, swallowing down my nerves. “Someone found him.”

“This is different.”

“I don’t see how,” I lie.

It’s very different. For one, I’d never hurt Dante.

But I lift my chin and meet Mikhail’s eyes. I don’t let him see the anxiety brewing under the surface.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he says, stepping around me. “When you’re being rational.”

“I am being rational! You’re the one not being?—”

But the door closes and Mikhail is gone.

Again.

I’m alone in my room.

Again.

I stand there for a few minutes, waiting to make sure Mikhail won’t change his mind, turn around, and come back to apologize. The fact that part of me still expects him to is more pathetic than I know what to do with.

So when the hallway stays quiet and the door stays closed, I slide the lock home, pull a duffel bag down from my closet, and start stuffing things inside.

I don’t want to leave. I can admit that much to myself. Despite everything that has happened between us, despite the fighting and the lies and the kidnapping—I still want him.

But what I want has never been a factor where Dante is concerned. I have to do what is best for my son, always.

When I finish packing the bag, I tuck it deep under the bed and shove some extra, rolled-up blankets around it for camouflage. I hope I don’t need it.

God, I really don’t want to need it.

But I’ve already lost my heart to a man who will never love me back.

I won’t lose my son to him, too.

54

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