Andrei (Quintessence Book 7) Read online

  “You do, huh?” he asked quietly. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  “I do.”

  “That your way of broaching this topic?” he teased, grinning when she nodded, her brow brushing against his throat.

  “I’m scared.” Her tone was bleak, but the words scored him.

  “What of, katyonok?”

  “Everything,” she said on a whisper. “Isn’t that stupid? How can you be scared of everything? I just am. I-I. . . .”

  “What, Sascha?” He kissed her temple. “Talk to me.”

  She blew out a gusty breath. “I just wish things could go back to how they were.”

  How could he argue with that? She should be close to eight months along now, and instead, they’d attended a funeral for the child who had never seen the light of day.

  When he didn’t say anything, she whispered, “I hate it here.”

  “Where?” He frowned. “The house?”

  “Yeah. I hate going into Tin’s bedroom. The nursery isn’t there anymore, but I hate it.”

  Tension invaded his limbs. “We’re going to Veronia soon.”

  “I know.”

  “A change might do you good.”

  “I hope so.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Do you want to move, darling?” he blurted out the question because he was still reeling from this conversation.

  He’d known she wasn’t happy. Blyad, it didn’t take a genius to figure that one out. But that she hated the house? That came as a surprise.

  This was their home.

  Had been for a long time. It had been their haven, but after Sascha, that haven had definitely morphed. This was just bricks and mortar to him. She made it a true home, and if she hated it here, then he was willing to do anything to take the pain away from her.

  Even if Devon had to sulk about leaving his damn office behind if they moved.

  “I don’t know, and I hate being so goddamn wishy-washy.” She made a grumbling sound under her breath, and he smiled a little, amused by her own irritation. This was what he loved about her. Even when she was drowning in unfamiliar emotions, she was self-aware.

  Strong enough to recognize that she was floundering.

  Rubbing his nose into her hair, so he could scent the pure essence that belonged to her and her alone, he murmured, “Whatever you want to do, we’ll do.” He winced at the idea, but had to ask, “Do you want to go back to the States?”

  She snorted. “No.”

  Was he relieved? Maybe. They lived under the radar here, but Devon and Sawyer were big news in the States. If they lived there, there would be attention, and their unusual household would definitely cause titters of gossip.

  “Why not?” he asked, wanting a reason rather than just a knee-jerk reaction.

  “Because England is home. It has been for a long time, but it became that even more so when I met you guys. Your world is here. This is where we need to be.”

  “This isn’t a matter of majority rules, Sascha. We want you to be happy,” he remarked, his tone husky—arguing against something he genuinely didn’t want, but was willing to cede to if it lifted her depression. “Wherever that is.”

  He felt her smile against his throat. “I know. I’m usually happy here. I’m just not at the moment.”

  He hesitated. They’d all, at some point, wanted to broach this topic with her but hadn’t known if it was wise. “Do you want to speak with someone?”

  She knew what he meant. “No.”

  The brusque retort pinched the skin around his eyes, but he took the hit and just nodded. “Okay. No worries.”

  The tension that had flooded her body at that moment hurt him. Physically pained him. At his easy acceptance though, she just blew out a breath. “Maybe someday. Just not yet.”

  She’d said that before, but every time they broached the topic of counseling, her rejections grew colder. “What about just speaking with Jacinta?”

  “Maybe,” she whispered.

  “Have you spoken with her?”

  “No. Not really.” She hadn’t been speaking to anyone. And she’d lost a shit-ton of weight, too.

  Too much.

  He rubbed his hand down her arm. “If you don’t want sex, but think we do, you don’t have to . . . I don’t know . . . force yourself to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

  When she didn’t reply, he thought it prudent to let the topic rest. He reached up and stroked his fingers over her head until he touched the curls that danced at her nape. Toying with those locks, he reached over with his free hand to knock his laptop out of sleep.

  Studying the files, he started to read through the information he’d need to process before he called the Minister of Finance in Veronia tomorrow. Then, he felt them.

  And a wave of uselessness filled him with resentment.

  The tears wet his throat and rather than comment on them, he just brushed his lips over her temple and let her weep until, at last, she relaxed in his arms, tumbling into a stress-triggered light doze.

  He clenched his eyes shut as the desire to do something, anything, to make this better hit him. He knew they’d all been feeling useless recently. Had been wishing there was something they could do to make things right—hadn’t that been why Devon had gone off and done what he’d done, dammit?—and yet, there was nothing anyone could do.

  Andrei feared only time would heal this wound.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  And that made him feel more out of control than ever, because in this matter, where he wanted to help, he couldn’t. It was out of his hands, and that hurt like a bitch.

  “Tin? What do you want for breakfast? Scrambled or poached eggs?”

  He always went for scrambled, but she never stopped asking him; trying to make him eat more diversely was tough when the kid was insistent on copycatting Devon.

  At first, she’d been rather pleased by how he always ate his vegetables without her having to tell him to. Because, hell, what mother wasn’t happy about that? The kid actively, without even scrunching his nose, munched on broccoli.

  Like it was a banana.

  Or a candy bar, even.

  Then, she’d realized why.

  Devon ate broccoli. Loved the stuff. Especially with mint sauce, a weird concoction that was basically fresh mint macerated in vinegar and sweetened with sugar. Devon poured it on his vegetables like another person would drench their fries in ketchup.

  That was how she’d put two and two together—she was definitely Columbo in the making.

  Tin did the same.

  Whatever Devon liked to eat, Tin did.

  Spinach, check.

  Avocados, check.

  Chocolate pudding, nope—Devon hated the stuff, and guess who else did?

  Tin had even started pouting about not being able to have wine with dinner, so she’d been giving him blackcurrant juice. The first time she’d made Devon drink it, so they could truly con Tin, who was far too intelligent for his own good. Devon hadn’t appreciated the Ribena at first, but now he’d started having that instead of wine.

  Regardless of her glum mood, her lips curved at the notion of the forty-one-year-old man-child drinking Ribena rather than good wine with his evening meal.

  “Scrambled are just better,” Devon told her, as he slouched into the kitchen, his feet padding against the stone flags before he slumped at the table, pressing his forehead to the wooden surface. “Aren’t they, kid?”

  She rolled her eyes at the muffled words, and rolled them again when Tin cheered, “Yes, papa,” and, of course, dropped his head on the table, too.

  Of all the fathers he’d chosen to emulate, it had to be the weird one, Sascha thought wryly, casting a look at the two heads that couldn’t have been more different. Devon’s so dark and saturnine. Tin’s so light and golden. Two opposites and yet, Tin was intent on mimicking his father for all his worth.

  “Why are they, though?” she questioned, eying the saucepan that was loaded w
ith eggs and wrinkling her nose in distaste. To her, an egg was an egg, was an egg. Although, she’d fallen out of love with them last year when she’d tried and failed Keto. The fad diet hadn’t lasted, but her loathing of all things bacon and egg had endured—it was enough to make her feel anti-American. What good-for-nothing American didn’t like those staples?

  It was akin to hating Reese’s Cups, and yet, the prospect of eating eggs turned her stomach to the point she didn’t care if Lady Liberty scorned her. Scorn be damned.

  “You don’t have to think about what you’re eating. Eggs are surprisingly complicated food, Sascha,” Devon told her earnestly, and Tin, of course, looked up and started nodding in total agreement.

  “Complicated?” She scowled harder. “How is an egg complicated?”

  “Do I eat the yolk first or the white? And if I eat the white first, there’s no flavor, but mixing it with the yolk just doesn’t feel right.” So said the man who covered his vegetables in mint sauce. “Should I dip with bread or sausage, and what about ketchup? And salt?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think the egg minds what your preference is.”

  “I mind,” he countered.

  “He wouldn’t eat egg whites for about six years,” Kurt commented as he stepped into the kitchen, his end destination her. He stopped at her side by the stove, pressed his hands to her hips, and pulled her back into his chest.

  Of the five of them, he and Andrei were the ones who were least cautious with her. Even Devon, who really couldn’t be careful without immense focus, was a little on edge around her, and she hated that.

  She knew it stemmed from a positive place. They wanted to shelter her, cosset and cuddle her, so trod carefully around her. All the damn time. But God, that was starting to wear thin.

  Devon made more of a mess of things when he tried to be careful, than he did at his most frank. Watching his words just made him panic, and when he panicked, he disappeared to his office for days at a time.

  She liked that, though Andrei was a little more cautious than Kurt, neither had any issue in treating her as she’d once been and not like a china doll.

  Kurt’s fingers weren’t soft on her hips as he held her in place. Not rough enough to leave bruises, but enough to make her feel the pressure of his touch. And the way he ground his cock into her ass? Another woman might have found it suggestive, but it actually relieved her.

  It made her feel like the woman she’d been and not the lost soul she felt like now.

  She wiggled her hips against him and smiled when he pressed a good morning kiss to the side of her throat—after nipping her shoulder. “Guten Morgen, Liebchen.”

  “Morning, love,” she told him, her voice husky as she tilted her head to let him kiss her on the mouth, too. He hummed under his breath then took a step back after patting her gently on the ass—he moved to the side to cover the motion from Tin who was susceptible to noticing shit like that.

  Devon had done it once. Then he’d had to explain to Tin why he couldn’t spank his mom.

  That had been both awkward and hilarious. She’d made sure to watch, too, mostly just to see Devon squirm, because Tin was no ordinary kid. He was still young, but in many ways, he just wasn’t. He was genius material, and Vasily had informed her that Andrei, as a child, had been a terror to guide because he’d been bored by everything.

  Nothing had satisfied that wonder brain of his.

  She just hoped having five dads who’d experienced similar childhoods would save him.

  She had a tendency of coddling Tin; he was her baby, after all. But the men didn’t. They pushed him to learn, where she would leave him alone. Andrei was talking about piano lessons already, and Kurt wanted to start introducing German next year by the latest, when they’d already agreed that Tin wouldn’t start on that until he was comfortable with Russian.

  Trouble was, he was comfortable with Russian. In the last two months, it was like a switch had been flicked. Now, he and Andrei could natter merrily away in the bathroom for the nightly ritual that saw Tin coming out squeaky clean, and Andrei drenched all the way to his socks though he stayed on the dry side of the bath.

  Hadn’t she seen that last night?

  Watching Vasily and Tin Skype was usually hilarious, but it had been boring because they’d done nothing but chatter in Russian.

  What had she done to deserve having all these geniuses around her when she was just average?

  Not even bothering to huff about that, because she had her own role to play here—Tin, for all he loved his daddies, couldn’t sleep without a kiss from her, and he’d informed her that her lap was the best of them to sit in . . . a woman had to take her compliments where she could find them in this genius farm.

  Serving the eggs in two bowls—two for Tin and a whopping eight for Devon who seemed to power through calories like nobody’s business, the jerk—she seasoned with salt and pepper then brought the dishes over to her two guys. There was toast on the table, toast Devon was spreading with butter and cutting into small geometric shapes for Tin, and just watching him do that simple act made her smile.

  It amazed her she didn’t have to prompt them. They just did this stuff. Maybe she shouldn’t have been amazed. Tin was theirs, too, wasn’t he? And a father should take an active role in his child’s life, but it never worked like that, did it?

  At her dreadful mother and toddler group, she never saw a single dad. Yet all five of hers had made an appearance at one point or another—something that had definitely raised some eyebrows, but she’d just never mentioned the word ‘dad’ and had let them assume the guys were relatives. No, she’d never seen another guy there, and yet, her men always made a point of coming with her at least once every few weeks. Then, there was how interactive they were with Tin. How they helped him grow, how they helped shape him even though he was so young.

  She’d really lucked out on the daddy scale.

  “What do you want for breakfast, honey?” she asked Kurt, pressing a kiss to his crown where the dirty-blond locks smelled like his lime and mint shampoo. As she sniffed, she watched Devon pass Tin the shapes once he’d identified the geometric forms.

  “I’m okay with toast today.”

  “You are?” She pulled back to cock a brow at him. “That’s not like you.”

  “I’m nervous.”

  Sascha smiled, touched. “It will be okay.” It always amazed her how such a talented writer, a true wordsmith, could have such little confidence in his work.

  He winced. “What if I hat—,” he eyed Tin, cleared his throat, and murmured, “dislike the cast?”

  They’d made a point of never using the words ‘love’ or ‘hate’ because, of course, Tin being the precocious little monster he was, had fixated on them to the point that he’d told his doctor he hated her because she always stuck him with a needle. Then he’d told the dogwalker in the park he loved him when they’d met the guy once, and . . . yeah. It was just easier not to use those kinds of words around him.

  The doctor had been offended even though Sascha felt sure most kids hated her, and she knew it—they’d just never told her. And the dogwalker had looked at them both like they were freaks.

  Maybe they were, but she preferred her world to any fucker else’s.

  Even if her almost-three-year-old was starting to freak her out with how smart he was. Because, hell, she didn’t always know some of the geometric shapes Devon cut out for him.

  “There’s bound to be someone you’ll dislike. We can’t like everyone, can we, Tin?” Devon’s words were a wisdom that she really didn’t feel like discussing after tossing and turning all night, and sleeping less than ninety minutes total. Sleep hadn’t been her friend recently, and she was starting to feel the backlash.

  “No, we can’t like everyone, but we treat everyone with respect, don’t we?” she countered, shooting her love a beady-eyed glance that warned him to watch his damn words.

  “Unless they don’t deserve it,” Devon grumbled,
ducking his head to avoid her eyes—well aware he was dancing with death.

  Goddammit. They’d already had this conversation, and she’d warned him! Several times, too.

  “Tin, we treat people with respect until they have proven they don’t deserve it,” Kurt tried to reason, but that didn’t make it much better.

  She foresaw a hell of a lot of trouble when it came time for school. Most of her teachers had been dicks, and hadn’t earned or deserved her respect, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t had to give it to them!

  “Seriously?” she groused, glowering at Kurt who smiled sheepishly. “I think I need my dad to visit.”

  “Why?” Devon asked, scowling. He and her father had a love-hate relationship. Well, not hate and not love just . . . Henry had a way of treating Devon like he was an alien.

  An unwelcome alien.

  An invading alien.

  Devon, quite naturally, didn’t appreciate the ET, phone home references.

  “Because he’s better at this stuff than you two, apparently,” she complained, rolling her eyes when Kurt laughed, and Devon just looked even more perplexed. Blowing out a breath and promising to figure out a way to make Tin realize the importance of politeness, she mumbled, “Never mind.” Then, she squeezed Kurt’s shoulder. “What time is the meeting with the cast?”

  “Twelve.” He shot her a look. “Do you want to come with me?”

  She shrugged. “If you want me there, I’d love to.” And, actually, she wasn’t lying. It would be nice to get out of the house for something that wasn’t playgroup or grocery shopping. Not that she’d felt up to much else over the last few weeks, but it was time for baby steps.

  And, in this house, baby steps involved meeting Hollywood stars.

  Plus, she reasoned, she’d helped Kurt finalize his Black Blood trilogy. Together, they’d plotted the story and worked on the actual final file together, her helping him shape it to where he dreamed it could be.