Page 169

“Three,” I tell him.

Dmitri follows us through the sealed door, his coat torn near the shoulder and dried blood marking two knuckles. “I’ll tell her two.”

Misha stands in the doorway of the suite in dinosaur pajamas, his yellow car held against his chest. The paper crown still sits crooked on his head. Elena appears behind him with Lev asleep against her shoulder, while Cara rises from the couch beside Mikhail. Oksana is near the fireplace holding the damp towel she used to wipe the chocolate from Misha’s face.

Misha sees me first.

His car falls onto the rug.

“Mama!”

He runs across the sitting room and reaches the corridor before Elena can catch him. I bend to lift him, but he passes my open arms and goes straight to Alexei.

“Papa!”

Misha throws himself against Alexei’s legs. Alexei drops to his knees, catches him, and pulls him close with both arms. Pain tightens his face when Misha strikes his injured side, but he doesn’t loosen his hold.

No one speaks. Even Mikhail stays beside Cara, his eyes moving between their faces, while Dmitri stands behind us.

Misha presses his face into Alexei’s neck and grips the back of his shirt in both fists. “You came back.”

Alexei closes his eyes. One hand covers the back of Misha’s head, while the other spreads across his small back.

“I promised,” he says.

His voice barely reaches me.

Misha lifts his head and touches the torn edge of Alexei’s collar. “Did the bad men hit you?”

Dmitri coughs into his fist.

Alexei opens his eyes. “One tried.”

“Did you hit him back?”

“Misha,” I say, crouching beside them.

Alexei looks at me over our son’s head. “He asked a reasonable question.”

Misha turns toward me and catches my sleeve. “Mama, come look at the castle Mikhail and I built. It even has a drawbridge.”

He pulls me toward the blocks while Mikhail walks slowly to Dmitri and looks up at him.

“You hurt, Papa?”

“A little,” Dmitri says, touching the back of his head. “I’ll be fine.”

Cara reaches them and puts one arm around Dmitri’s waist. He draws her against his side, and she rests her hand against his chest. The shape of her pistol still shows beneath the left side of her jacket, tucked under her arm in the shoulder holster.

Mikhail presses himself between them, and Dmitri bends enough to wrap his free arm around his son.

I touch Misha’s cheek and check his face, neck, and hands again and again.

He allows it, then pushes my hand away. “I’m not sick.”

“Your mother checks everyone,” Alexei tells him.

Misha studies the hand pressed against Alexei’s side. “She needs to check you more.”