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The door opens softly. Nikolai stands there, one hand on the frame, his eyes moving from Anya to me.

“What are you watching?”

“Nothing scary,” Anya says immediately.

On screen, someone screams.

Nikolai looks at me. I expect him to say something about her being too young to watch something like this. But he simply just folds his arms over his chest.

I lift both hands slightly. “I was overruled.” Besides I know all too well what happens when someone tells you not to do it. In some ways, I’m a lot like Anya.

He comes in without another word and sits on the other side of Anya, still in his shirt from dinner, sleeves rolled up, face serious like this is a matter requiring adult supervision.

Anya lasts another six minutes.

Then she says, very calmly, “I don’t think we can watch any more of that.”

Nikolai reaches for the remote. “Of course.”

“I’m not scared.”

“No.”

“It’s just not good.”

“Terrible,” I agree.

We watch Elle Enchanted instead.

Anya relaxes almost immediately, curled between us with her head on my pillow and her feet tucked under Nikolai’s thigh.

I expected him to leave after we changed the movie, but he came around the other side, sat down, and minutes later relaxed against the princess bedframe.

The princess bedframe.

Pink, carved, absurdly delicate, with little painted flowers along the headboard and Anya tucked between us like this is the most normal thing in the world.

I glance at Nikolai.

He is too large for the bed, one shoulder against the wall, his long legs stretched carefully so he doesn’t kick the blanket off Anya. He looks completely comfortable, which annoys me more than it should.

“This bed is not built for three people,” I say.

His eyes move to me over Anya’s head. “It will survive.”

“You have a lot of confidence in beds.”

His mouth almost moves. I narrow my eyes at him.

He looks back at the screen. “This one has done nothing to offend me.”

Anya laughs without looking away from the movie. I don’t.

I should. It is funny. Or it would be, if I were not still angry with him, if my skin didn’t still feel hot from the way Kirill looked away, if Nikolai’s answer had not sat in my chest all evening.

Has this happened before? Not like this.

I look down at Anya, curled under the blanket in her pajamas, completely unaware of the mess sitting on either side of her. That helps. It forces me to breathe, to put my face in order, to remember that none of this belongs in her room.