21. Viviana

This feels nice.

"This feels nice?!" I mutter, jabbing two fingers into my forehead like maybe I can reach into my brain and scoop out whatever microchip Mikhail must have planted there while I slept. There's no other explanation, right? I mean, I hugged him. He made me cry… and then I hugged him! If that's not a sign of some high-level brainwashing, I don't know what is.

As if my life wasn't already on some janky, nightmarish carnival—the kind that doesn't just leave you hurling up your funnel cake, but also severs your legs off at the knees—things just went even more sideways.

The worst part is, I can still feel the gnaw of disappointment in my stomach. The ache that was ready to be filled by Mikhail's lips and hands and whatever other body parts he wanted to offer up.

I know what almost happened between us in that kitchen was a mistake—but I also can't stop thinking about it.

Sure, I've had mind-melting sex with Mikhail and carried his baby, but we never exactly cuddled. I kind of assumed he would feel cold and sterile like a gynecologist's exam table. But when I leaned against his chest, I wanted to curl up there. I did curl up there! A crime for which I'll never forgive myself. Because now, I know what it feels like to snuggle with Mikhail and I'll never be the same.

Especially because he all but rejected me.

I never want to see you without this on.

I twirl the hideous ring I chose for myself around my ring finger where Mikhail placed it. I should have thought about the consequences of my little prank long-term. It was fun to see Mikhail's reaction to the rings for a split second, but now, I have to actually wear the damn thing.

I have to wear this ring and live in this house and be married to Mikhail.

After everything I did to get free…

I sold my soul to the devil to escape this world, but here I am. It was all for nothing.

When I look down at my hand again, all I see is imaginary blood. Crusted to my knuckles, dripping between my fingers. I close my fist and swear I feel the cold handle of a knife against my palm.

My heart races, thundering against my rib cage until I'm shaking.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

I'm in Mikhail's mansion. I'm alone. I'm okay.

I never thought being in Mikhail's house would be a comfort, but I repeat the mantra to myself until the clamp around my chest loosens slightly.

When I open my eyes and look down, my hand is clean. The blood is gone. Before I can dwell on my Lady Macbeth moment too long, I hear whimpering coming from the hallway.

Dante.

I wrench open my bedroom door and am halfway across the hall before I smack directly into a wall of muscle. A bare-chested wall of muscle, actually.

As if my cheek has a very specific form of muscle memory, I know it's Mikhail even before he grabs my shoulders to steady me.

We stand there for a second. Just long enough to prove that his abs are every bit as fitness-magazine perfect as I thought they would be.

Then the whimpering coming from Dante's room rises to a full-on cry.

Mikhail lets me go and slips into Dante's room before I have full use of my legs again. Once I follow him inside, his muscular back blocks my view of what's happening until he kneels down next to Dante's bed.

"What's going on, mal'chik?" he asks, voice surprisingly tender.

Dante is sitting up, his blue eyes wide and shimmering in the soft glow of his nightlight, his lower lip pouted out. "I had a bad dream."

We have a routine for this. I lie down in bed with him and stroke his hair until he falls asleep. It's the only thing that has ever worked to calm him down.

I'm about to shove Mikhail aside and crawl next to Dante when, instead, Mikhail reaches for Dante's hand.

"Bad dreams are the worst."

"You get bad dreams, too?" Dante asks.

Mikhail nods. Somehow, that simple movement sends muscles in his back flexing and shifting. "Everyone gets bad dreams."

"What are your bad dreams about?"

Mikhail hesitates for only a second before he answers. "About not being able to save the people I love."

Who does Mikhail love?Anatoly and Raoul probably. Maybe Dante. It's only been a few days, but he's an easy kid to love.

I twist my wedding ring around my finger and smother the naive little voice that thinks I might be somewhere on that list.

Dante sighs. "Mine was about being chased by a dinosaur."

"Was it a big one?"

"The biggest." Dante shudders. He looks tiny tucked into the full-sized bed. "His foot was as big as your house."

Mikhail winces. "That doesn't sound good. Did he squish anybody?"

Dante chews on his lower lip and looks up at me. His chin dimples. "Mama."

I kneel next to Mikhail and grab Dante's other hand. I curl his fingers against my cheek. "I'm okay, baby. I'm right here."

"The dinosaur chased you and I didn't run after you. I was too scared. I—" He devolves into another round of tears.

"You couldn't save the person you love, either," Mikhail finishes. He pats his leg. "But that was just in a dream. In real life, you're brave."

"No, I'm scared," Dante argues.

"Of course you are. You have to be scared to be brave."

Dante looks at me, eyebrows raised like, This guy is crazy, right? But I stay quiet. I want to hear where Mikhail is going with this.

"If you aren't scared, then fighting a dinosaur isn't brave. It's just something you're doing. Just another normal day in your life. But overcoming your fear," Mikhail says, his large thumb rubbing over Dante's knuckles, "that makes you brave."

Dante frowns. "I guess so."

"‘I guess so' isn't good enough. I need you to know it. I'm going to test you. Are you ready?"

Dante sits tall, nodding. "I'm ready."

"If you want to be brave, you have to be…"

"Scared!" Dante answers.

Mikhail smiles. "And when you're scared, you have to be…"

"Brave!"

He holds up his hand for a high-five, but Dante pushes right past it and wraps his arms around Mikhail's neck.

I'm pretty sure my heart stops.

I ran from Mikhail for years, terrified of what would happen if he ever caught up to us. But occasionally, when I let myself imagine the best-case scenario… I imagined this.

Dante having a real relationship with his dad. His dad wanting a relationship with him.

Kneeling there next to this mish-mashed little family of mine, I realize that agreeing to marry Mikhail is about more than keeping Dante safe. It's about making him happy.

It's about giving him everything he needs… even when what he needs is Mikhail.

"Mama," Dante mumbles, reaching towards me with grasping little fingers.

I lean in and let him hug my neck. "Do you want me to stay?"

He bites his lip, considering it. Then he puffs out his little chest. "I'm going to be brave."

Mikhail and I are almost through his door when he sits up again. "Mikhail? What happens if I can't be brave?"

"That's why you have me." Mikhail winks. "I'll take care of you."

God, I hope he means that.

"And Mama?" Dante asks.

My stomach drops, but Mikhail just nods. "And your mama."

Damn that naive little voice inside my head, but I hope he means that, too.

Back in the hallway with Dante's door firmly closed, I suddenly can't look away from Mikhail's bare chest.

The chest I cuddled less than an hour ago.

Or his biceps.

The biceps that just hugged our son after he had a nightmare.

Or his abs.

The abs I would scale like the world's sexiest climbing wall.

Mikhail says something and I have to rip my eyes up to his face.

The face so perfect the universe pulled a copy/paste and gave it to my son, too.

"What?" I ask, blinking at him like a confused newborn.

"Does that happen a lot?" he repeats. "The nightmares?"

"A few times a month, probably. Some months are worse than others. You handled it well, though."

Mikhail arches a brow. "But…?"

"You're good with him," I admit with no small amount of reluctance. "He likes you."

"The boy has good taste."

"Don't make me regret this," I groan.

Mikhail steps closer. He smells like cool mint and cedar. It just wafts off of his skin like he's a walking bottle of pheromones. "Regret what?"

I shrug weakly. "Being nice to you. Trying to… coparent."

"What happened to ‘You get him for Bratva stuff; I get him for everything else'?"

"I'm trying to put it behind us and start over if you'll stop being pompous for five seconds." I huff out a breath. "The only reason I'm here is for Dante. I want what's best for him. And as much as I hate to admit it?—"

"I'm going to love this," Mikhail says, crossing his huggable biceps over his cuddlable chest.

I do my best to ignore his words and his body.

"—you're good for him. That whole speech in there was inspired. You connected with him and I don't want to get in the way of your relationship."

Mikhail is thoughtful, his jaw flexing as he thinks. "He really loves you, Viviana."

"‘The boy has good taste.'"

He rolls his eyes. "He really loves you, and I don't want to get in the way of that relationship, either."

The silence between us settles into something comfortable. Even with his chiseled-from-marble pecs on display, I don't have a hard time looking in his eyes.

"Then we're in agreement," I finally say. "We try to be civil. For Dante."

"You think you can handle that?"

"I can handle anything, thank you very much."

"Good." He starts to say something else and stops. His brow furrows before he finally forces the words out. "Because we have plans tomorrow. We can practice being civil."

"Plans for all of us?" I imagine another shopping spree and barely resist groaning.

"No. Just the two of us. You and me."

My stupid heart leaps, but I quickly lasso and hogtie it down. "Do I have a choice?"

"Of course you have a choice. But we're trying to get along, aren't we?" He dips his head. His breath whispers over my skin. "It would be civil of you to cooperate… so I'm not forced to carry you, kicking and screaming, over my shoulder again."

I'm tempted to ask about the spanking. Is that on the table, too?

But before I can find the words, Mikhail is back in his room with the door closed.