Page 6 of Imperfect Desires

“What truth?” Yelena asks.

My father’s eyes darken. “About Viktor.”

The name cuts through the air like a blade. My heart seizes painfully. My hand grips the armrest of the chair. Yelena goes very still beside me.

“Viktor is dead,” I say. “We’ve always known that.”

My father’s mouth curves slightly at the edge. “Have you?”

The door to the room opens with a quiet hiss, and I turn. A figure steps through the doorway. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in black.

My pulse thunders in my ears as he steps into the light. Air freezes in my lungs painfully. The person standing before me is the exact replica of my father.

“No. You...you were dead,' I whisper, my voice shaking.

“No, it’s impossible.” I hear Yelena mutter.

Viktor?

He’s older now. His face is harder and sharper. His dark hair is slicked back, with a faint scar running along his jawline. His eyes—the same piercing blue as mine—are colder than in the pictures I have of him.

He looks different. But the truth is, I don’t remember much about him at all. I was three when he died, or when they said he died. I’ve spent my whole life trying to remember him, but there’s nothing. No voice. No smile. Just the vague outline of a boy who should have been there- a hollow space where a brother should have been.

Yelena’s hand clamps down on my arm. “This isn’t real,” she whispers.

But it is.

Viktor’s eyes sweep over us slowly, his gaze sharp and assessing. His mouth presses into a thin line as if he is trying to control his emotions. His shoulders rise and fall with each steady breath.

“Alina,” he says quietly. His voice is low and rough—colder than I imagined it would be.

My knees buckle. I stumble forward, my hand trembling as I reach for him.

My fingertips skim the fabric of his jacket. Solid. Warm. Real.

A broken sound escapes me. “Viktor?”

His gaze softens. Just slightly.

I throw myself into his chest. My arms circle around his neck as a sob tears free from my throat. Yelena is right behind me, her arms locking around both of us.

Viktor’s arms close around us tightly.

My breath shudders as tears blur my vision. My hands clutch the fabric of his jacket, desperate to hold onto him.

“I thought you were dead,” I choke out.

“I know,” Viktor whispers. His hand slides into my hair, his grip steady. “I know.”

Yelena’s shoulders shake. Her hand fists against Viktor’s back. For once, her composure is gone. She’s crying openly, without shame.

We cling to him for what feels like forever.

Finally, I pull back. My right hand drifts to the side of Viktor’s face, lingering over the faint scar along his jaw. My chest is tight.

“Is… Mama?” I can’t finish the sentence.

Viktor’s gaze hardens.

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