Page 45

"I'm not that delicate," I said with a light laugh, but I didn't pull my hand away.

His thumb grazed my knuckles, the gentle touch sending my nerves into overdrive. Even something so small could spark memories of his hands on me, possessive and reverent.

"Look! A butterfly!" Anya's excited shout broke the moment. She dropped her shovel and tore off after an orange butterfly, her giggles echoing through the garden.

Suddenly, it was just us. Gennady still held my hand, watching Anya chase her butterfly, a soft smile on his face.

"She's always so full of life," I said, smiling too. "Back at school, she was always the one chasing butterflies."

"Yeah," he said, his green eyes warm. "Sometimes I think she's got endless energy. Takes three bedtime stories to get her to settle down."

"Three?" I raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "How late does that keep you up?"

"Usually 'til eight-thirty," he said, shaking his head with a fond smirk. "And they can't be repeats—she demands new ones. I swear, she's gonna drain my imagination dry."

"What kind of stories do you tell her?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Princesses and princes, animal adventures," he said, then hesitated, a touch of embarrassment flickering across his face. "And… stories about violinists."

My heart skipped a beat. "She loves music?"

"Loves it," he nodded. "Whenever she hears something beautiful, she goes still, just listening. I think maybe she got that from…"

His words trailed off, his expression shifting, heavy with something unspoken.

"From who?" I asked softly, though I had a guess.

He was quiet for a moment, staring at Anya running in the distance, his eyes soft but distant. "She's a lot like her mother," he said finally, his voice thick with memory and pain.

My chest tightened. It was the first time he'd opened up about Anya's mother, letting me glimpse the raw wound he carried.

"Isabella loved music too," he went on, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. "Whenever a song came on, she'd grab me and make me dance—living room, garden, even the damn kitchen. She said music made all the good things in the world feel real."

Isabella. The name hit me, heavy and real.

"She sounds beautiful," I said softly, a mix of respect for her memory and ache for his pain swirling in me.

"She was," he said, his voice softer now. "Most beautiful woman I ever saw. Golden hair, blue eyes, like Anya. But it was her heart—her kindness—that made her shine."

His nostalgia was so raw, so deep, it stirred something bittersweet in me. Not jealousy, but a quiet sadness for what he'd lost, and a need to understand him more.

"How did she…" I started, then stopped, unsure if I was crossing a line.

"How'd she die?" he finished for me, his eyes shadowed with bitterness. "My enemies. They took her out."

The words landed like a punch, stealing my breath. I pictured him shattered, Anya too young to understand, and my heart ached for them both.

"Anya was only two," he said, his voice low. "She doesn't even remember what her mom looked like. Sometimes I think that's better—no pain of loss."

"But she deserves to know who her mom was," I said gently.

He turned to me, surprise flickering in his eyes. "You don't think this is too heavy?"

"No," I said honestly. "It's part of you, part of Anya. I want to know you both."

He stared at me, his green eyes swirling with something complex—gratitude, emotion, and something deeper I couldn't name.

"Isabella would've liked you," he said suddenly, and my heart stuttered. "She always said real beauty comes from a kind heart. And you, Cassie, you've got the most beautiful heart I've ever seen."