Page 62 of Sexting His Assistant

“And yet,” she says, “I remain his mother.”

Nina’s mouth twitches.

Misha helps me stand. I allow it because refusing would be theatre, and I don’t have the blood left for theatre. The bandage is tight across my shoulder. My arm feels heavy and useless. My skin’s still tacky where blood dried before Mirov cleaned most of it away.

I hate being weak in front of anyone.

In front of Nina, it feels indecent.

We leave the medical room slowly. My mother walks ahead, speaking to one of the staff in a low voice. Mirov follows with his bag, still listing instructions no one intends to follow properly. Nina walks behind me and Misha.

I know the exact distance without turning.

Three steps.

Close enough that I can hear the soft sound of her shoes against the floor.

Far enough that she’s not touching me.

The arrangement pulls something old from memory before I can stop it.

Another hallway. Another night. The Hale house, years ago. Misha and I younger, bloodless for once, returning from some meeting I barely remember. Nina had been seven, maybe eight, all dark hair and fierce little eyes, padding after us in socks because she’d decided she was old enough to sit with us.

Misha kept telling her to go to bed.

She kept ignoring him.

I remember her small face tipped up in outrage, demanding to know why boys got to talk about important things after midnight while she had to sleep. She wanted to be included so desperately. Wanted to be old enough, useful enough, allowed enough.

She wanted to be our friend.

No. She wanted to belong to whatever world Misha belonged to, because she loved him and thought that meant the world must be safe if he stood inside it.

I remember carrying her once after she fell asleep on a sofa during a family dinner. She had smelled like sugar and shampoo. Her cheek had rested against my shoulder for less than a minute before she woke, realized it was me, and pretended to still be asleep because she wanted to be carried.

She was so small then.

And now⁠—

Now I know the taste of her.

The thought turns my stomach.

Not because I didn’t want her. That would be a lie, and I’ve had enough lies for one day.

Because I did. Because I do.

Because the wanting is no longer abstract, no longer something I can lock behind age, loyalty, distance, employment, duty, Misha. It’s become physical fact. My mouth on her. Her hands in my hair. Her breath breaking in the boardroom. Her body telling me the truth before either of us had the courage to say it.

I practically saw her grow up.

The thought is not new. It is the wall I built first and highest.

Nina as a child. Nina as Misha’s little sister. Nina sitting cross-legged on the floor while men spoke over her head.

Nina at twelve, rolling her eyes when I gave her earrings because I didn’t know what girls that age actually wanted.

Nina leaving for university.