Page 39 of Scarlet Chains
I want to laugh bitterly. Maybe she does too. But neither of us responds. We’re frozen in this moment, two people staring across an impossible chasm of coincidence and consequence. I can hear Slava’s soft breathing, can see the gentle rise and fall of his small body against Ilona’s shoulder, but I can’t seem to move. Can’t form words. Can’t do anything except drink in the sight of the woman who’s haunted me since she left.
She’s been here.
With him.
All this time.
The realization cuts deep. While I was tearing apart Boston looking for my son, while I was building cases and hiring lawyers and threatening bureaucrats, she was here. Caring for him. Being the parent I should have been.
Simpson, clearly uncomfortable with the tension radiating off us, extends his hand toward Ilona. “My name is Cameron Simpson. We spoke on the phone.” Then, with the casual brutality of bureaucratic efficiency, he adds, “Mr. Sidorov here is Slava’s biological father.”
The words clearly hit Ilona with devastating force. What little color remained in her face vanishes completely, leaving her looking like she might collapse right there in the doorway. Her grip on Slava tightens reflexively, and I see the exact moment when understanding crashes over her.
And suddenly, I understand too. She didn’t know. Somehow, impossibly, the woman I’ve been aching for has been caring for my son without realizing the connection.
What are the fucking odds?
What kind of cosmic joke is this?
Chapter Sixteen
Ilona
Biological father?
Osip?
What the actual everloving fuck?
Everything I thought I knew crumbles like dust. The last thing I expected today was to see Osip. The man I ran away from. The man who murdered my father. The man whose child I’m carrying— and he doesn’t even know I’m still pregnant with his baby. The man whose son I’m holding in my arms.
This feels like some twisted romance novel where coincidences pile up until reality becomes absurd. But this is my life, and I’m drowning in the impossibility of it all.
My head reels as I desperately try to piece together this nightmare puzzle. How is this even possible? What are the chances that the baby I’ve been caring for, the child I’ve grown to love, belongs tohim?
Mr. Simpson licks his lips nervously, his gaze bouncing between Osip and me like he’s watching a tennis match. The poor man looks utterly bewildered by the sudden tension. No wonder he’s confused— the tension in this room is strung taut, and it’s obvious he has no idea why.
“By law, I have to take Slava back to Beacon Hill for now,” Simpson says, clearing his throat as he looks at Osip, whose expression grows thunderous.
“He’s my son,” Osip snarls. “He belongs with me!”
“Mr. Sidorov, I understand your concerns, but there is a right way to do this if you want to maintain your custody. Let’s discuss it back at the office.” His eyes shift to me with genuine concern. “Can we give you a lift somewhere?”
Before I can even open my mouth, Osip interrupts me. “She’s coming with us.”
Not a question. Not a request. A statement delivered with the absolute authority of a man who expects compliance. He turns those pale eyes on me, and I feel caught in a trap. The way he looks at me— like he can see straight through every wall I’ve built, every lie I’ve told myself.
And fuck me sideways if I don’t have to clench my thighs together. Heat floods my core, and I’m certain I just destroyed my panties with a flood of wetness.
For fuck’s sake, get it together, girl!
But God, he’s still devastatingly attractive. His thick dark hair is longer than I remember, falling slightly across his forehead in a way that suggests he hasn’t been keeping up with regular cuts. The stubble along his jaw is uneven— where he used to maintain a perfectly groomed beard, now it looks like he’s been shaving carelessly, or not at all. His gray eyes are the same storm clouds I remember, and those sharp masculine features still make my stomach flutter despite everything.
Time hasn’t dulled the dangerous magnetism that radiates from him, and my traitorous body responds like it’s been programmed to want him. The familiar ache builds low in my belly, the same desperate hunger that got me into this mess in the first place.
Stop it.
Just stop it, you idiot!
