Page 19 of Crimson Curse
His voice holds the burden of old pain, yet also a trace of fondness. Gratitude for the time they had together, however brief it was. I study the painting on the easel, the garden scenethat will never be completed. The brushstrokes are confident and sure, the colors vibrant with life.
He walks to the window and rests his hand on the frame, his fingers spreading against the wood. The gesture is unconsciously protective, as if he's still trying to shield her from the world that took her away. The morning light highlights the sharp angles of his face. Even in grief, he's beautiful.
I follow him, standing close enough to feel his warmth but not touching him. The garden outside is in bloom, roses climbing the stone walls, and fountains bubbling peacefully among carefully tended beds. It's the same garden from the unfinished painting, viewed from this very window. She must have spent hours here, watching the seasons change, translating what she saw into art.
“I'm not here to erase her, Daniil,” I murmur quietly, conscious of disturbing the sacred stillness. “I'm not here to replace her. I'm here to love you with all of your past, and with all the ghosts. With all of you.”
The words feel inadequate, too small to contain the enormity of what I'm trying to express. But they're true, and sometimes, truth is all we have to offer. I understand now why he kept this room locked. Not to hide from the past, but to preserve it. To honor what was lost without letting it consume what remains.
He turns to face me, and something in him loosens. Like a door inside him opening, just as this one has. The tension he's carried in his shoulders eases, and for the first time since I've known him, he looks at peace.
“You already do,” he whispers.
I reach for his hand and place it over my heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath my ribs. The beat that quickens whenever he'snear, that stuttered to a stop when Viktor took me away, and sang with joy when Daniil found me again. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he covers my hand with his, holding it there like it’s more sacred than anything in this room.
“This doesn't scare me,” I say. “You don't scare me.”
And I mean it. The violence that surrounds him, the danger that follows in his wake, and the enemies who would destroy us both for the crime of loving each other, none of it matters. What we have is worth fighting for. Worth dying for, and worth living for.
We leave the room together, no need for more words. The door stays open behind us, and I know it will remain that way. Not abandoned but integrated. Part of the home we're building together, a testament to the capacity of the heart to hold both grief and joy without breaking.
The rest of the morning passes in comfortable silence. We share breakfast in the kitchen, neither of us eating more than a few bites. My stomach is too tight with nerves to accept nourishment. Daniil notices, as he always does, but doesn't comment. He simply pushes fresh fruit toward me, his eyes encouraging without being demanding.
I manage half a strawberry before abandoning the pretense entirely. My hands shake as I set down my fork, and I press them flat against the marble counter to still their trembling. The words I need to say burn in my throat, demanding release, but I can't seem to force them past my lips.
After breakfast, I ask him to come with me. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too bright and brittle. He follows me without question, his presence solid and reassuring at my back.We walk through the marble halls, moving toward an uncertain future.
The garden beckons with its promise of privacy. We pass through the French doors that lead outside, and the cool morning air wraps around us like a benediction. The scent of roses creates a perfume so intoxicating it makes my head spin. Bees hum lazily among the flower beds, their drowsy song the only sound besides our synchronized breathing.
I lead him to the far edge of the garden where an ornate iron bench sits. The view stretches wide from here, rolling hills and distant forests painting a picture of pastoral tranquility that belies the violence simmering beneath the surface of our world. The breeze picks up, stirring my hair and carrying with it the promise of change.
I stop there, hands folded in front of me, my heart beating so fast I'm certain he can hear it. There's no good way to deliver this news. No script that will make the words easier to speak or hear. Just the truth demanding to be acknowledged.
I turn to him, and our eyes meet. His eyes are the color of winter storms, ice-gray, turbulent, and beautiful. They see everything and miss nothing. There's no hiding from that gaze, and no shelter from its intensity.
“I'm pregnant,” I blurt out.
The words fall between us like stones into still water, sending ripples through the morning. For a moment, everything stills. His eyes don't widen in shock or narrow in displeasure. They deepen, growing darker as the implications settle into his consciousness. I watch emotions flash across his face like shadows racing across the ground. Surprise, yes, but not thekind born of ignorance. More like recognition, as if some part of him already knew.
“I'm not running,” I continue before he can speak. “You don't have to protect me from yourself. I don't want to be hidden away or shielded from your world. I want to stand beside you, and face whatever comes together.”
My voice grows stronger with each word, conviction burning away the fear that has been gnawing at my insides since I first suspected the truth. This isn't how I planned my life. It isn't the safe, predictable future I once imagined for myself. But plans are for people who haven't fallen in love with dangerous men. For people who haven't discovered that sometimes the most terrifying leap is also the most necessary one.
I swallow, forcing myself to keep going. “Daniil… there’s something else. Before Viktor took me, I noticed one of my birth control pills looked different. I thought I was imagining it. I brushed it off because I had bigger things to worry about. But now…” My voice falters. “Now I’m not so sure it was an accident.”
His entire body goes still. “When did you notice?”
“A few days before everything happened.” I hesitate, the unease churning in my stomach making me feel suddenly cold. “And the only person who came into my room during that time was Irina. She said she was leaving me a gift, lavender oil and a silk eye mask.”
His jaw tightens. “Irina,” he repeats, low and flat, like the name alone is dangerous.
I frown. “What are you thinking?”
He steps closer, the air between us charged. “A few weeks ago, she told me the Bratva needed an heir. That I’d thank her later. I didn’t think she meantthis.” His voice sharpens, each word cutting clean. “If she tampered with your pills, she acted without my consent. And for that, there will be consequences.”
A shiver runs through me. Not from fear of him, but from the quiet, deadly promise in his tone.
“I don’t want this moment tainted,” I whisper. “I had to tell you, but I don’t want to think about her right now. I want to think about us. About this baby.”
