Chapter 20 We make our way downstairs, Luka's hand tight in mine. The social worker has her back to us. From the back, her posture is rigid and unforgiving. I'm certain, even without seeing her head-on, that she's going to have the puckered, miserable face of Miss Trunchbull from Matilda. "How long have you and your... girlfriend... been together?" she's asking. A fanged burst of panicked heat rises to my throat. I should have been prepped before this meeting. What if she had asked me that question? What if I'd fumbled the response? What if I blew this whole thing before it ever gets started, and Luka gets snatched away by this Trunchbull impersonator, dragged away from his galaxy and back into a cruel, cold home filled with hisses and pinches and cramped, dark, dusty attics? "Almost a year," Kovan answers without missing a beat. The lie rolls off his tongue so smoothly that for a second, I almost believe it myself. A year? Has it really been that long already? Time sure flies when you're in love, doesn't it? "Still early stages, then." Trunchbull scribbles a note. "I don't measure relationships by time," Kovan counters, his voice warm. "Vesper and I connected immediately. She's one of the two most important people in my life." I know that's a lie, too, and yet that doesn't stop me from leaning into it like a stolen hug. What's even crazier is that Kovan sounds like he means it, too. Every word smacks of authenticity. For a wild moment, I let myself imagine exactly that: being one of the two most important people in Kovan's life. Me, him, and Luka. Unexchangeable, irreplaceable. Three puzzle pieces fitted together with neither room nor need for anyone else. Then he looks at me and I see the mask on his face, and I remember what this is: a game of pretend. That's all it is. That's all it can ever be. "Ah," Kovan says, turning toward us. "Here they are. Vesper, Luka, this is Ms. Eliza Murphy. She works for Social Services." Luka hides behind my thigh but manages a small, timid wave. "Hello, Luka. Hello, Vesper." Her gaze moves lazily to me, sweeps up and down, then back to Luka. "Mr. Krayev was just telling me how you met." My pulse spikes. We definitely should have rehearsed this. I throw Kovan a panicked look, but he doesn't return it. He seems perfectly calm. "They met at the hospital," Luka pipes up. "St. Raphael's, where Vesper works. I was there!" I'm still busy trying to communicate telepathically with Kovan, who is still busy pretending I don't exist, when I hear Ms. Murphy ask, with the savvy casualness of a seasoned attorney, "A year ago?" Mayday, mayday. She's poking. And she's going to find massive, massive holes in our story. If Luka starts talking about masked gunmen a few weeks ago, our little game of pretend is D.O.A. "Yeah, when I was seven," Luka says easily. Jeez, the kid can lie like a rug. I really need to up my game if I'm going to keep up with these two. Trunchbull frowns. "And for what reason were you and your uncle at the hospital?" "I broke my arm." Ms. Murphy glances towards Kovan. "Luka was in your custody at the time?" "He was in his mother's house. His stepfather pushed him down the staircase." Ms. Murphy's face doesn't change. She turns her impassive stare on Luka. "Is that true, Luka? Your stepfather pushed you?" "Yes," he mumbles, looking down. "Why did he do that?" "I don't remember. Sometimes, Ihor gets really mad. He yells. And if I'm in his way..." He trails off with a shrug that screams, Please, no more questions. I can't help myself. I move to his side, my hand settling protectively on his shoulder. Ms. Murphy watches the gesture with sharp interest. "Luka, before I arrived, did your uncle tell you what to say to me?" The question comes out of nowhere, designed to blindside him, to expose him for a little liar, a puppet of his uncle. Luka's eyes widen, darting toward Kovan before he catches himself. "N-no," he insists, but his cheeks flush red. Trunchbull is like a dog with a bone, practically salivating at the hint of a lie. "You don't sound certain anymore." "I-I-I am." A stutter is peeking through the cracks in his voice. "So your uncle hasn't coached you? What to say to me? What not to say to me?" Luka shrinks into himself, his head dropping toward his lap. "N-no. No, he didn't." But he refuses to lift his eyes now. She stoops to his level. "Luka, you know it's wrong to lie to a social worker, don't you?" "I'm not lying!" The cry bursts out of him, desperate and frightened. "Enough." Kovan's voice slices through the room. "You're scaring him." Trunchbull purses her lips. "I'm trying to determine what's best for this child. That requires difficult questions." Kovan steps closer to her, his size suddenly threatening. "There's a difference between difficult questions and bullying an eight-year-old." "Stop!" Luka cries, tears gleaming fresh on his face. He wriggles out from beneath my touch and bolts from the room before I can stop him. Ms. Murphy watches him go, then turns back to Kovan. "Do you always handle conflict by intimidation? Is this how you deal with Luka when he misbehaves?" This is spiraling out of control. I move to Kovan's side, my hand sliding up his arm. His muscles are rigid with fury he must be dying to unleash on this skeletal woman. "Ms. Murphy," I say, my voice calm and professional, "I think there's been a misunderstanding. Kovan is protective of Luka because that child has been through hell. If you knew what he's endured⁠-" "Everyone wants what's best for him," she interrupts. "Then may I suggest you don't hurt him further in the process of helping him." I keep my voice steady, drawing on every ounce of my medical training. "When I first met Luka, he was severely traumatized. He blamed himself for getting pushed down the stairs. And if that was the only time he'd been hospitalized, it would be a different thing. But it's not. The last time Kovan brought him to St. Raphael's, Luka nearly died. Allergic reaction to pineapple. Which his mother is aware of⁠-" "And yet she keeps it in the house," Kovan adds, his voice tight. Ms. Murphy raises her chin. "Ms. Makhova has her own concerns about you, Mr. Krayev." "I'm sure she does. Abusers always blame everyone else." Another suck of her teeth, dismissive, disbelieving. "I can't discuss what was said during our visit with her." "She's charming when she wants to be," Kovan says bitterly. "Don't let her fool you." I squeeze his arm harder. We need to de-escalate this, not make it worse. "Ms. Murphy," I say again, "I'm a pediatric doctor. I know the signs of abuse, and that little boy upstairs has been failed by the system meant to protect him. He's safe here. He's loved here. Let him stay here." She closes her notebook with a sharp snap. Her face is still pinched and remorseless. "That remains to be seen. I have more visits to conduct before making my recommendation." "Right. Of course," I say, while Kovan seethes silently beside me. "Mr. Krayev. Ms. Fairfax." She nods curtly and turns for the door. "I'll walk you out," Kovan growls. "Let me," I say quickly, my hand still on his arm. The last thing we need is him intimidating her further. It's beyond clear that she loathes Kovan already. I escort her to her car, my mind racing for something to salvage this disaster. But she beats me to the punch. "It's a funny thing," she remarks as she unlocks her door. "When I mentioned you to Mrs. Makhova, she had no idea who you were. In fact, she seemed quite certain her brother-in-law was single. That he preferred it that way. And that under no circumstances she could possibly imagine would he ever take a woman into his home. Unless, of course, there was something in it for him. Some... ulterior motive." My stomach drops, but I keep my voice level. "Clearly, she was mistaken. Otherwise, what would I be doing here?" Her smile, the very first she's offered up, reveals a row of tiny teeth with canines sharp like fangs. "Clearly." I watch her drive away, my heart hammering and an acrid taste lingering in my mouth. When I turn back to the house, Kovan is waiting by the door, his face stormy. "She knows," he says without preamble. "How can you be sure?" "Did you not see how she walked in here? Like she already had her mind made up. Someone tipped her off." He runs a hand through his hair. "We should have had weeks to prepare. To get our story straight." "You did fine in there. So did Luka." "Did I? Because I wanted to throw her through a window." His eyes are dark with frustration. "Sometimes, I wonder if I'm asking too much of him. All these lies, all this pretending... " The doubt in his voice does something to me. This powerful, dangerous man reduced to worrying about an eight-year-old boy's feelings. A crack in his armor, and through it, his beating, pulsing heart, exposed to the world for the first time in his whole life, if I had to guess. "Kovan." I touch his arm again. "You love that kid. Anyone can see it." "Love isn't always enough. In fact, it rarely is." "It is for Luka. That house in there? It's a love letter. Every painted wall, every carefully chosen toy, that incredible galaxy upstairs. He belongs here, because you built him a home. Not a house. A home." His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us. Something real and warm and patently terrifying. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For staying calm in there. For backing me up." "It's what I'm here for." "Is it?" He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Are you convinced now? That I'm the right person to raise him?" "I... I⁠-" "Be honest. You weren't sure before." "I wasn't sure before, maybe," I whisper. "I am now, though. You love him. Anyone with eyes can see how much you love him." He raises his hand slowly, his fingers hovering just above my shoulder. He taps my birthmarks, all three of them, each in turn, one by one by one. Tap. Tap. Tap. Soft, gentle, loving touches. "Beautiful" is all he says. I don't ask for an explanation and he doesn't offer one. When was the last time I felt this way? With anyone? I've never had any use for romance or love. I was a doctor, like my father. There wasn't room for anything else in my life. Now, I find myself wondering... Should I make room? "I should go," I manage, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to stay. "Should you?" The question is barely more than a breath, but it flattens me with all the possibilities it contains. Because suddenly, I'm not sure of anything anymore. Not what I want, not what I'm afraid of, not what the hell I'm doing with my carefully ordered life. All I know is that walking away from Kovan Krayev might be the hardest thing I've ever done. But even as I peel myself from him, even as I get in my car, even as I drive away and the distance between us grows and grows until I can't see him anymore, I feel him, as if he were right next to me. Not even distance can drive him from my mind.