Page 88 of The Pakhan's Captive
The realization is a fresh wave of agony. I don’t want to be. I fought it with everything I had. I used my anger like armor and my silence like a wall, but he found the cracks anyway. He didn’t use force or threats; he just used himself. He showed me his heart, and I was too weak to turn away.
“I hate you,” I whisper, though there’s no conviction in the words. “I hate you for making me love you.”
I finally fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep just as the first hint of gray appears in the sky. My dreams are a blur of blood and roses, of cold dungeons and warm beds. And in every dream, Razvan is there, reaching for me through the fog.
When I wake up, the stone is still there, sitting heavy in my chest. But the tears have dried, leaving my skin feeling tight and my soul feeling raw.
I sit up and look at the door. I know he’s out there. I know he’s waiting for me to make a choice. And as I stand up to start another day in this beautiful, gilded cage, I realize that the war isn’t between me and Razvan anymore.
It’s between me and my father’s ghost.
And I’m not sure who’s going to win.
I walk to the vanity and look at myself in the mirror. I look like a woman who has been through a war. My eyes are red, my face is pale, but there’s a new determination in my gaze. I can’t keep living like this—suspended between the past and the present.
I have to decide if I’m going to stay a Sokolova forever or if I’m finally brave enough to become a Volkov.
I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair and adjusting my robe. I have to go see Theo. I have to be a mother. And I have to figure out how to look at the man I love without seeing the man I should hate.
The morning routine with Theo is a blessing. It’s the only time my mind stays quiet. We play with his blocks, we draw picturesof dragons that look like scribbles, and I let his laughter wash over the jagged edges of my heart.
But as I watch him, I see so much of Razvan in him. The way he tilts his head when he’s thinking, the stubborn set of his chin, the intensity in his dark eyes. He is a living bridge between the man I loved and the man I’m learning to love.
“Mama, look!” Theo shouts, holding up a blue block. “It’s a castle for Superman!”
“It’s beautiful, Theo,” I say, my voice a little tight.
“Is Superman coming to play?”
I look toward the door, half-expecting to see him standing there in the shadows. “I don’t know, baby. He’s very busy today.”
“He’s always busy,” Theo pouts, his little lip trembling. “But he saved me from the fever. He’s my hero.”
I sit on the floor beside him, pulling him into a hug that he barely tolerates in his excitement. “He is very strong, isn’t he?”
Theo nods vigorously, then he gets quiet, looking at me with that serious expression that always reminds me too much of the man downstairs. “Mama, I love you too. You gave me the cold water and the hugs.”
He plays with a toy car then looks up. “Superman and Mama are married, right? Like in the books? Does that mean Superman is my Dad?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. I look at my son—this beautiful, innocent boy who deserves a father who loves him. “Would you like that, Theo? Would you like Razvan to be your Dad?”
Theo thinks about it. He goes very still, his little eyebrows furrowing as he considers it with more weight than any four-year-old should have to.
Then, he nods slowly. “Yes. I would like that.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Why, baby?”
Theo smiles, a small, knowing thing. “Because Superman looks at Mama the way Prince Charming looks at Cinderella in the movie. Like you’re the best thing in the whole world. And he protects everyone. He protects us. I’m happy he’s my dad.”
I pull him into my arms, burying my face in his neck so he can’t see the tears finally spilling over. I try so hard not to cry, to keep the sob from escaping my throat, but my chest is aching. My son sees the love that I’m trying so hard to ignore. He sees a hero where I see a villain.
I hold Theo until he squirms to get away, his mind already back on his dragons. I stand up, wiping my eyes, and look toward the door. I know Razvan is out there. I know he’s waiting for me to make a choice. And as I watch my son play, I realize that the war isn’t just about the past anymore. It’s about the future.
And I have no idea how it’s going to go.
27
RAZVAN
The darkness in my study is absolute, except for the amber glow of the Scotch in my glass and the dying embers in the fireplace. I haven’t been back to the master bedroom in two days. I can’t. Every time I look at that bed, I see the silhouette of the woman who fled from me at dinner. I see the way she looked at me—like I was a ghost, or a monster, or something even worse.
