Page 114 of Scarlet Secrets

Something shifts in the air, and my skin pricks all over, but I keep reading.

I finish the third page, then kiss Sasha’s forehead, closing the book. With a breath, I turn, ready for Demyan.

It’s a punch to the gut, seeing him standing there, because his eyes are unguarded and there’s a world of softness and pain, of violence and anger, and a deep sadness I don’t knowwhat to do with. Along with the sadness is an anxiousness. That’s new.

And I meet his gaze, searching for words.

But I don’t want to be swayed by the softness and the sadness. Or the anxiousness that reminds me so much of Sasha when he knows he’s done something wrong.

I clench my jaw as I tidy the room, then I ignore Demyan as I push past him.

He goes into the bedroom and outside in the hall, with guards downstairs that I can’t see, guards I know are there and I wait.

Demyan’s voice is warm and sweet as he talks to Sasha. Our son’s asleep, but it’s a moment that normally I’d hold tight, putting it away with the other perfect nuggets.

Not tonight.

His hand around Ilya’s neck haunts me. The sound of Ilya’s feet hitting the wall. The sight of Demyan shoving his sister, the feel of his hand as he shoved me…

I hate myself for standing here making sure our son’s okay. Making sure he doesn’t do anything.

Not that I think he will.

It’s just… How do I even know for sure?

But I do. He won’t hurt Sasha.

I know that in my bones.

He’d never push my baby like he did me.

But…

I still have a job to protect Sasha. My son comes first and I wait until Demyan steps out the door.

In the hall, he looks at me. “Erin…”

But I shake my head and stalk off to his room. His. Not ours. I still don’t call it our room. It’s his. My room’s the fancy cell he kept me in.

“Erin.”

I don’t answer him. I don’t look at him. I just go into thebathroom and slam the door, getting ready for bed. He bought me lingerie, a lot of it. Instead of that, I pull on my old sleep shirt I packed when I ran a million years ago.

“Lyubimaya.”

“I don’t know what that means. I don’t speak Russian.”

And he has the audacity to look at me like I just slapped him. “Love. It means love. As inmoya lyubov. My love.”

“But I’m not.”

“Fuck!” I flinch and he softens. “Erin. I owe you an apology for earlier. And I am. I’m sorry.”

I take the expensive lotion he got me and rub it into my legs, then my arms. My face is done. Teeth brushed. Hair up. I don’t know why I’m carrying on with these rituals when it’s like my whole life’s somehow ready to implode.

“You owe Ilya an apology,” I say, still not looking at him. “More than me.”

His jacket hits the bed.

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