Page 31 of Daniil
He just laughs.“Sorry?”
“You aresonot sorry.”
“Not really.”He follows me up the stairs as Micah continues to chirp and gurgle, occasionally throwing in sounds like “da da” or “bum bum.”
I start the bath and Daniil entertains the baby while I gather a clean diaper, pajamas, and the cream I use on his dry skin.By the time I get back to the bathroom, Micah’s in the water, Daniil has rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt and is kneeling next to the tub.
He’s a prince.Honest-to-goodness royalty, as well as a statesman and politician, yet he’s giving his son a bath in my thirty-year-old rented house like he does it every day.And I know damn well he doesn’t.He doesn’t cook, clean, or run errands.There’s a full staff at the palace that caters to his every need, and though I’ll concede that he works hard, he lives a life of luxury and comfort.
The scene before me is so out of character for the man I got to know during our time together in Limaj, I’m a bit mesmerized.He’s so strong and capable.Handsome.Smart.Rich.And that could be my life—ourlife—with him.
Until it blows up in our faces.This is all smoke and mirrors.I know damn well he would never give up his life to live here with us, and there’s no universe where I put our son in the kind of danger Daniil’s life comes with.
No matter how sweet this is, or how good he is with him, I have to stay strong.Realistic.Protecting Micah has to come before anything else—even my momentary romantic fantasies.
“His shampoo is on the right,” I say after a moment.“The green bottle.He doesn’t love water getting in his eyes, so be gentle with that.”
“Of course.”Daniil doesn’t hesitate, confident in his role as father to an infant he’s only known about for a couple of days.
Five minutes later, Micah’s on my bed as Daniil continues our nighttime routine with just a few instructions from me, things that other parents might not do, like the special cream we use for his skin.Beyond that, he’s competent with the diaper, dressing him, and combing the soft hair on his head that’s going to stick up in the morning no matter what.
“Do you, uh, want to rock him?”I ask.“I give him a bottle and then put him down when he’s almost asleep.I don’t know what you did when your other kids were little but?—”
“I’ll do it however you want it done,” he says quietly.“I don’t want to mess up your routine.”
“Okay.”I watch for a moment, but Micah seems confused now, reaching for me when Daniil sinks into the rocking chair.
I’m not sure how to respond.Do I take him, effectively ending Daniil’s bonding moment, or leave them to it?My mother’s heart wants to intervene—I hate seeing him cry—but I know he has to get used to other people.Even if that other person is his father.
Damn, this is hard.
“It’s all right, mate,” Daniil says in a soothing voice, bouncing Micah.His accent is difficult to pinpoint if you don’t know him.Born and raised in Limaj, with a Swedish father and a Limaji mother, but educated in England.He spent most of his exile years in England and Scotland, from what I’ve been told, and now works with so many Americans, his accent is a mish mash of different languages.
His English definitely tilts to the British side, littered with American slang and a spattering of things I don’t always understand.He told me he speaks six languages—Limaji, Swedish, English—English is his third language!—French, Russian, and enough Italian to get by.I’m a little embarrassed that I only speak English with a smattering of Farci since I spent nearly three years in the Middle East.
Slowly, I back out of the room and then press myself against the wall in the hallway.
I spent the last year doing everything in my power to avoid exactly the situation I’m in now.I have to stop romanticizing the man and come up with a practical solution that will serve as some kind of compromise.
Anything less is unacceptable.
Chapter13
Daniil
Myriad emotions washover me as I rock my son to sleep.His sweet, innocent face, so trusting and beautiful, I’ve never felt anything quite like this.At first, I was mad on principle that she kept my son from me.Then I was hurt.Hurt that she thinks so little of me, that she would keep something so monumental a secret.
Now I’m overwhelmed.
I’m still upset she didn’t tell me she was pregnant with my baby, and I’ll probably always be hurt that she doesn’t trust me, but I also understand better.The day of the attack was…traumatic.For all of us.But less so for those of us who’ve been living with the reality of this life for a long time.My entire life, if I’m honest.I was born into royalty, so safety was always a concern.
The day most of my family was killed impacted me in ways I’ve never been able to talk about.Not to Erik and Sandor, not to Jesper when we were together, not to anyone.I bury my pain and trauma in work and meaningless love affairs.Except the one that produced a child.My child.My son.
I keep repeating those words over and over because they’re important.And it’s not about having an heir.That doesn’t mean much to me.There are tons of heirs already between Erik, Sandor, and even Elen.The royal bloodline is in no danger of ending.
But this is my child.My boy.My little prince.
When Charlie was born, I was there, involved, and I loved him, but there was a level of detachment.Partly because I was distracted by the plans to take back our country and the throne, but also because the marriage was already falling apart and I didn’t know how to fix it.I realized I loved Jesper but wasn’tin lovewith him too late, so I think I subconsciously kept the kids at an emotional distance.Like I knew Jesper wouldn’t let me play a big part in their lives once we separated.
