Page 49 of Gilded Shackles
Pasha reaches out and scratches behind the cat's ears. "I think he's having fun with me," he says. Proud and a little amazed.
"He is," I say. "He's not usually this easy to impress."
He beams. Then goes quiet for a second. "Do you think Papa will let me get a dog next?"
I laugh. "Wow. We're already planning the next hostage?"
Pasha giggles. "It's not a hostage! It's a dog!"
"Same thing, depending on who you ask. But I think we should maybe ease your dad into it. He's still recovering from the cat."
"He hasn't even sneezed."
"I know," I say, rolling my eyes. "It's probably a fake allergy. He just doesn't like being outvoted."
Pasha laughs and leans back against the couch like he plans to stay a while.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask me anything."
He thinks for a second. "What were you like as a kid?"
The question hits harder than I expect. Simple and innocent, but it peels back a layer I usually keep tucked away even from myself.
I keep my voice light. "I was... different. I didn't go to school like you do. I didn't have friends. I didn't even have a pet."
Pasha frowns. "Why not?"
I fiddle with a loose thread on my shorts, trying to explain my life to a child without making it sound as messed up as it actually was.
"My mom was very protective," I say carefully. "She thought the outside world was dangerous, so I stayed inside our building most of the time."
His eyes widen. "That's so sad."
"It was," I admit, trying not to sound too broken about it. "But that's why I like being here. With you, and Sir Isaac, and even your grumpy father."
Pasha considers this deeply, his little face scrunching up as he processes. Then, without warning, he launches himself at me, skinny arms wrapping around my neck in a hug so fierce it nearly knocks me backward.
"I'll be your friend," he declares against my hair. "Your best friend. And you can play with my toys and we can build robots every day."
Someone bring me tissues, chocolate, and maybe a therapist, because this kid just cracked open my cold dead heart like it was a piñata. I press my cheek into his hair and close my eyes, hugging him hard, hoping he can feel how much I mean it when I say he's already the best part of this house.
I pull back, blinking hard because I did not come here today planning to cry in front of an eight-year-old. "Thank you, little bear."
Sir Isaac huffs, relieved to no longer be squished, but stays on my lap.
"I'm serious," Pasha mumbles. "If you didn't have friends before, you do now."
I ruffle his hair. "You're the best person I know."
That night,we sit down for dinner together. Me, Nikolai, and Pasha. Just us. No guards hovering, no staff standing by with trays. Just plates of steaming food on an evening that almost feels normal.
It's a far cry from the stilted, formal meals I endured at my mother's table. Forced to dress appropriately in her presence, hair and face done up as if I had anywhere to go. This dining room is still absurdly large, with its high ceiling and a chandelier that screamsbe impressed.But somehow, Pasha's presence makes it feel less like a mausoleum and more like a home.
Pasha dives into a retelling of the robot project like it's breaking news.
"She helped me build it," he says, pointing at me. "And it actually picked up the ball without falling over! It's got a gripper arm and everything." He turns to Nikolai with the gravity of a press secretary. "She's not just a cat lady. She's good at robots too."
