Page 72 of Possessive Vows

She scoots higher in her seat and considers for a moment before releasing her stuffed animal and reaching into the bag. Her cute little fingers grab the tissue paper and pull it out with a deliberation I worry isn’t common in young children. When I otherwise ignore her, giving her freedom to decide, she perks up and follows Maksim’s lead and pulls the biggest item—a stuffed bunny—out with interest.

She scowls and drops it over the side of her seat beside the window and does the same to the other plushie before grabbing the pastel pink box. Trying not to take her rejection to heart, I hold my breath and lean back when she looks at Maksim for help. Still speed talking in Russian, he lends his dexterity to his sister as though he’s done it a million times.

The familiarity between them eases my angst. They have each other.

For a while, I pulled away from my siblings and forgot how much we supported each other as we grew, but Serenity and Giorgio will always be on my side.

These three have the same unbreakable bond.

When Maksim struggles with the band of Zoya’s watch, he grunts and asks if I can do it, so I reach over and finish fastening it.

I sit back and let Maksim’s excitement flow through me as we exit the airport, but when we turn onto the busy city streets, he falls silent. All three children stare out the windows, in awe and overwhelmed at the busy streets and tall buildings.

When we park in front of the townhouse, Maksim bounces in his seat and points to the things he finds interesting. The trees, gates, different styles of buildings, street signs—nothing is safe from his zealous scrutiny.

Dimitri checks the area and waits for the other vehicles in our convoy to park in the most strategic spots, ensuring our safety as we transition from car to home.

And it truly feels like a home with Maksim’s eager chatter. Even though I don’t understand half of what he says, since he swaps between Russian and English, I fill in the gaps using his tone and gestures. Zoya becomes Artur’s shadow again as I offer them a tour of the house.

After showing the boys the room they will share, I direct the nanny to the second room and watch in concern as Zoya shies away when I point out her bed, but Maksim’s shout pulls me back down the hall.

“We have a television in our room?” he squeals when I step inside.

I sag in relief and send Dimitri a glance, begging for help. He ducks through the doorway and asserts whatever rules he thinks are best before instructing them to wash up for dinner. When he weaves his fingers through mine and leads me to the door, I catch Artur’s scowl in the painting on the hallway wall.

I inhale and turn the corner, feeling frayed along my edges. Dimitri senses my need for a break and leads me to the master bedroom.

“I will inform Nanny Olga of dinner plans while you rest,” he says.

“What are we—”

“Do not worry,so´lnyshka. I will have food delivered. We will not leave the house again today. Rest,” he insists.

I nod and wander deeper into the room as he shuts the door between us, but worry gnaws at me. After pacing between the vanity in the walk-in closet and the window in the sitting area a few times, I decide to follow my instincts and rush across the house.

The clock ticks in the living room. Dimitri orders food in the kitchen. Maksim and Artur’s voices filter under their door.

I stop outside Zoya’s door and give a soft knock.

A thud sounds from deep inside the room. Alarm spears through me. I push open the door and step inside only to find it empty. As I follow a second thud toward the closed bathroom door, dread churns in my gut.

Underneath my pounding heart, I hear the faintest whimper before a third blow filters into my ears.

I jerk the door wide open. My soul drops into my toes at the sight of Nanny Olga with her grip tight on Zoya’s arm and her hand raised above her head. Disbelief spears through me as she swats Zoya’s clothed backside.

Zoya’s treasured stuffed animal lies at her feet, and the three-year-old stares down at it with wild, pain-filled eyes and her thumb lodged firmly behind her teeth, muffling her sounds of pain.

Rage colors my vision red. My legs carry me across the floor and I strike with every ounce of fury roaring through my blood. Pain streaks up my freshly healed arm, but I don’t give a shit. I haul back and smack the old woman harder.

“Let. Her. Go,” I snarl, infuriated at the sight of Zoya’s delicate arm in the heartless crag’s weathered grip.

The nanny lifts her face and pulls Zoya’s arm higher, forcing her elbow high above her head.

I yank my knife from my belt.

The hag lifts an unimpressed grey brow, and I know I’ll hate the next words out of her mouth before she even speaks.

“Why fuss over so simple a thing? She—”

---