Chapter 46

Mishka

"Papa!"

"My little butternut squash!"

I giggled at the look at Anton's face at the nickname. Papa had many for me. I was wrapped in my father's arms, with Anton waiting patiently near the door to the suite that my father was staying in. He felt good. More substantial than he had since the sickness started.

He felt thicker than he had in years. He looked good, too. He even smelled healthier, if that made sense.

And his accommodations were suspiciously luxurious… I gave my husband a look, realizing that his fingers were all over the situation. He had orchestrated all of it, I realized. There had never been a jar of money found in the stock room. There had never been a miraculously open appointment with a sought-after doctor.

It had all been Anton. All along. It had always been him.

Love swelled inside me, filling me with a feeling unlike I had never known. If I hadn't loved the man already, I would have fallen for him in that moment. Could you fall more in love with someone each and every day? I wondered.

I knew that the answer was yes. For the two of us, it was yes. And judging from the doting look in his eyes, he felt the same way too.

Only my father had ever looked at me with that kind of love. Of course, it was a bit different. There was a world of heat and promise in my husband's eyes.

Would I ever get used to saying that?

Husband. Hussssband. My husssssband.

I giggled, earning a questioning look from Anton, and my father, who pulled back to look at me.

"You look good, Mishka. Healthy," he added turning to look over his shoulder at Anton. "I suppose this handsome devil has something to do with that."

Anton merely smiled.

"Your son-in-law would like to take you all out to lunch," he said, his tone and expression mild. He was not used to affection or love, I realized. His brothers and he were close, of that there was no doubt. But affectionate? Hardly. They were more likely to try and drink each other into a coma, place outrageous bets, or play outrageous pranks.

But hugging? Kissing? Compliments?

He was starved for that sort of vulnerability. That sort of tenderness. No wonder he was glued to my side. I was the first person he allowed to be kind to him. To love him.

So, it was no surprise that he looked mildly alarmed when my father strode over to him and clasped his face, before throwing his arms around the much taller, much younger man. I hid a smile as my father somehow managed to give my muscular, towering husband a bear hug. My smile grew as a moment later, Anton returned the hug.

He was careful not to hurt my father with his strength. I could tell. But he hugged him back, all the same. He had to bend down significantly to do it.

Hours later and we were celebrating a second ceremony with a quick and very early dinner, this one performed by a judge in his private chambers. In between lunch and the wedding, complete with a new, more conservative but formal lace cap sleeve dress, we had met with Papa's doctors, who had been cautiously optimistic that a full recovery might be possible.

My heart sang at that news. I had almost everything I could have ever wanted in that moment.

We had also met with his nutritionist, a trim and attractive woman around his age. I had been startled to notice a bit of chemistry between them. They had even shared a secret smile.

"Did you see that?" I had asked on our way back to the airport. Anton had given me a smile and a wink, telling me not to worry about it.

"I'm not worried! Though shouldn't he be focused on his healing?"

"I think he should be focused on enjoying every second of every day," Anton countered. I thought about what he had said for a moment and nodded.

"You are very wise. And very observant. I was worried," I admitted.

"I know," he said, so tenderly it made my insides ache.

By morning, we were back in Moscow, then at the estate. Anton had already had my things moved into his chamber. But I asked to spend one more night in mine. He had looked a bit hurt at first.

It was tradition for the bride and groom to spend the night before their wedding apart. And I needed some time to get my head straight.

This whirlwind romance had truly been a whirlwind, spanning multiple countries, coasts, and nuptial celebrations. I was tired. And after spending most of the day being poked and prodded by frantic seamstresses, I was ready to spend some time alone.

I had a tray sent up for dinner, leaving Anton to hang with his brothers. A bachelor party, of sorts. It was utter madness that we were getting married again, tomorrow, and that this was to be a full-scale wedding for two hundred people. I did not understand how, or why, Anton had felt the need to pull this off, but he had.

There was already a tent and chairs being set up in the backyard, I noticed as I looked out the window, sipping a cup of herbal tea. I wasn't quite ready for a bath and bed, so I decided to take a walk around to my old music room.

I picked up my violin and carried it into the hallway. I took the stairs to the music room on the upper levels. In an ordinary mansion, it might have been the servants quarters. Or where children were given their lessons.

I walked past the music room, still carrying my violin. I was not in the mood to play for some reason. Instead I wandered down the hallway towards an alcove I had not seen before. The third story was just as long as the first and second levels, though not the subterranean level which connected all three wings of the estate to the original mansion. The ceilings up here were slightly lower and the decor a bit simpler, though equally as luxurious.

As I neared the end of the hall I saw that the alcove contained a stairway, leading up. The ceiling was in fact, much lower here. The stairwell was the same dark, polished wood as the rest of the house, but the railing was not ornate. It was plain. Almost utilitarian.

I followed the stairs up into a room that astonished me. It was an attic, full of boxes and furniture covered in drop cloths. But close to the entrance, by a set of broad dormer windows, were several easels, as a stack of canvases.

The smell of oil paint and linseed oil was heavy in the air. But none of that astonished me. It was what was on the easel that was so surprising.

It was me.

It was… beautiful.

I was standing in the dining room, waiting to serve him. My chin was lifted and I looked haughty and annoyed. Had… Anton painted this? I glanced around and saw a stack of paintings of various sizes, leaned carefully along one wall.

I set down my violin case and walked over towards them. I stared in awe. They were all beautifully done. And they were all of me.

Behind a large painting I found a smaller one.

This was the one that nearly sent me to my knees.

It was me, again, like all of them were. But this was different. In this painting, I was alone in my room, playing the violin. The level of detail was extraordinary. You could see the tears on my cheeks. You could see the anguish in my eyes.

You could see the details of my bra and panties.

I remembered the night that I had played alone in my room. It was right after my arrival. I was worried about papa and so angry at Anton that I had no choice but to play. The next day he had admitted listening to me and asked me to play for him.

The realization was chilling.

He had been watching me. Spying on me. How much had he seen? Had he watched me change? Sleep? Talk to my father? Pace?

No wonder he had known that my shoes were hurting. Or that I had missed meals. He had put me under surveillance from the moment of my arrival. It was such a violation of my privacy, of my personhood, that I nearly fell to my knees.

Just then, I heard a floorboard creak behind me.

"Do you always pose for him?" An unfamiliar voice asked. I glanced over my shoulder. A man stood there. The look in his eyes was chilling. The stack of paintings fell from my hands as I stood, my heart hammering in my chest.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Uranov. And you should be very, very afraid."