Page 50 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

"Please, Mommy?"

The evening breeze swept down the street, lifting that honey-gold strand off his forehead.

I stared into those gray-blue eyes for two seconds, then took a deep breath and forced something like a smile.

"Of course, sweetie. Your teacher can come up for a bit."

"Yay!"

I took Alex's hand and headed toward the apartment.

Ivan followed behind us, maybe two steps back. Not close, not far. His shoes scraped the asphalt, dry and light, mixed with the crunch of dead leaves.

The wind pushed from behind, carrying his scent—cedar mixed with a hint of tobacco, diluted by the evening chill, threading into my nose in thin wisps.

Then I heard his voice, soft, like he was talking to the wind itself.

"You can't run from me."

The hairs on the back of my neck rose instantly, and a trail of icy sensation spread down my spine.

I didn't look back, and I didn't slow my pace. I simply tightened my grip on Alex's hand.

Alex bounced along, chattering about the turtle he'd made in art class today, painted green on top, but the paint was too thick and hadn't dried all afternoon.

I responded on autopilot. "Oh really? Did it dry eventually?"

It was the only way I could press down the panic rising in my chest. I couldn't let my eyes drift backward.

The apartment wasn't far. Around the corner and we were there.

I fumbled for my keys. Ivan stood quietly behind me. I could feel him staring—from my shoulders down my spine—like a hot coal pressed against fabric, making my whole body tense.

He was making me crawl out of my skin.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, changed into slippers, then nudged the spare gray pair toward the door.

Ivan bent to change shoes, his gaze sweeping over the photo of me and Alex on the entryway table. He paused.

"You've had this photo up a while?"

The picture was from Alex's first year of preschool. His honey-gold head tilted against my shoulder, me looking down at him, both of us smiling. Background: the graffiti-covered wall by the preschool entrance.

My hand gripped the edge of the table. I stared at his back, thoughts spinning. He was testing me. Looking for cracks in my story.

"Put it up when we moved in," I said, keeping my voice casual. "Almost three years now."

Ivan didn't respond.

His fingertip traced the glass, lingering there longer than felt normal.

He said, "Someone's missing."

My heart clenched. My breathing hitched.

Who was he talking about?

Himself?