Page 35 of Secret Heir

He’s always impeccably dressed in tailored clothes and makes some comment about how Daniel is finally getting proper nutrition.

There will be other snide comments when I try to help Daniel with reading and Maksim implies I’m not qualified. Other arguments happen when Daniel goes to bed and we’re left alone with nothing but anger between us.

“He asked about what school he’ll be going to in the fall,” Maksim says one evening. We’re in the sitting room of my suite—also known as my prison—and he’s standing by the window with a glass of vodka.

He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt that hugs his muscular frame in ways that make it hard to concentrate on hating him.

The setting sun behind him catches the gray in his dark hair, and for a moment I remember what it felt like when that hair was darker and I thought I knew him. “I told him we’d look into private tutors.”

My hands tighten around my book. “He needs to be around other children.” I don’t look up from the book I’m pretending to read. “He needs socialization.”

“He needs stability first. He’s only been here a month.”

“He’s had stability. With me. For seven years.”

“Stability?” Maksim’s laugh is harsh. He turns from the window, and the light behind him silhouettes his powerful build—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the body of a man built for violence. “Is that what you call moving every few months? Changing schools three times in two years? Living in apartments so small he didn’t have his own bedroom?”

“We did what we had to do.” I slam the book closed. “And he was fine.”

“He was not fine.” He takes a step closer, and I can see the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his full lips press into a hard line. His achingly familiar cologne of cedar and leather swirls around me. “He was hoarding food and going hungry and wearing shoes with holes. He couldn’t even swim, Aria. What seven-year-old doesn’t know how to swim?”

“One whose mother couldn’t afford swim lessons.” I’m fighting to keep my voice down. “One whose mother was too busy working three jobs to keep a roof over their heads.”

“One whose mother was too stubborn to ask for help.” He sets his glass down with controlled precision. “One whose mother decided poverty was preferable to swallowing her pride.”

I grit my teeth. “We managed,” I repeat. “We survived.”

“Surviving isn’t living.” He moves closer, and I can see the anger in the set of his shoulders, and the tension in his jaw. “And you kept him barely surviving when he could have been thriving. He should have been learning languages, traveling, attending the best schools. He should have been learning about his culture, and his family’s history.” Maksim’s lip curls. “Instead, he was learning what it feels like to be hungry.”

He never fucking stops, does he? Does he not know how much I’ve thought about all that? “He learned what it means to be strong,” I counter. “To be resilient. To⁠—”

“To hoard food in his pockets?” Maksim’s voice is deadly quiet now. “To offer his mother half a stale sandwich because he’s learned there’s not enough for both of them?” I stiffen and Maksim smirks coldly. “Oh yes, Aria. I know all about that. That’s not strength, Aria. That’s trauma. That’s what happens when a child grows up with scarcity.”

I can feel heat on my cheeks, but I refuse to back down. I lift my chin. “I did the best I could⁠—”

“Your best wasn’t good enough!” Maksim snaps and I flinch like I’ve been slapped. “He’s almost eight years old and he’s never been to a museum, seen a ballet, or gone on a vacation. He doesn’t know his own history. He doesn’t know he’s descended from one of the most powerful families in Brighton Beach. He doesn’t know his grandfather was a brigadier, that his uncle runs an empire, that his blood is⁠—”

“Is what?” I’m on my feet now, fury propelling me forward. “Russian mob royalty? You think that’s something to be proud of? You think I should have raised him to be like you?”

“Like me?” His eyes flash. “You mean successful? Powerful? Able to provide for my family?”

“I mean dangerous.” I’m close enough now to see a small scar on his jaw. His pupils dilate when I get near. “I mean violent. Exactly what I was running from.”

“And what was that, Aria?” He leans down, bringing his face level with mine. I can see every detail now—the thick lashes framing those winter-gray eyes, the slight bump on his nose where it was broken, the stubble shadowing his jaw that’s more silver than brown these days. “What exactly were you running from?”

I press my lips together.

“Right.” He steps back, and I hate that I feel the loss of his proximity. “You and your fucking secrets. Keep pretending you had noble reasons for what you did. But we both know the truth—you ran because you were scared, and you stayed gone because you were too proud to admit you couldn’t do it alone.”

“Fuck you.” The words are out before I can stop them.

“Already did that.” His smile is cruel, and it transforms his handsome face into something sharp. “Multiple times eight years ago. Remember? Or have you forgotten what it felt like when I actually gave a damn about you?”

I can’t help but flinch, the air rushing out of my lungs.

I remember. God, I remember. I remember the way he used to touch me.

He’d pull me into his lap and bury his face in my hair before kissing down my neck.