He’d been wrong.
After their desperate attempts to contain their daughter’s agony, their focus had converged on him. He’d thought he was being too sensitive to their merest glance, but none of those who’d flooded the house, including his other sisters and brother, had looked at him like that.
As if they recognized him.
But of course they couldn’t. Nothing remained of the twelve-year-old they’d bartered away for their freedom but his eye color. And then how would they even suspect a resemblance, when they must have believed him long dead?
A big percentage of the boys culled by The Organization couldn’t endure their brutal training. Of those who did, more than half didn’t last in the field. It was why they were always harvesting more, with their mortality rate so high. And the boy his parents knew, the slight nerd he’d been, wouldn’t have been able to survive the inferno he’d been tossed in. If it hadn’t been for his brothers, he wouldn’t have.
He’d waited for anger to overtake him, but all he felt was desolation. Even now, he couldn’t hate them. The only thing he felt when he looked at them—older, frailer and in their grief, even fragile—was pity.
There was no doubt in his mind they’d loved Alex as a son. Instead of that making him more bitter, it was like a knife of sympathy tearing through his guts.
The ordeal continued into the next day. Everyone, as if responding to his superior powers, let him steer everything. He’d fast-forwarded the process and arranged for the burial, laying Alex’s body to rest, along with the true circumstances of his death.
Now they were back at Alex’s house, and the true grieving had just begun. Alex’s parents and Katerina seemed to be sinking deeper into despair. The only one who’d already gone through the stages of loss was Anastasia, and he felt her pour out her support to everyone who needed her. As he’d feared she would. But there was nothing he could do to stop that, to make her preserve herself, not give too much.
He now stood at the periphery of the jarringly sunny living room watching those who’d loved Alex flocking around his family in an effort to absorb a measure of their distress.
Then the agitation that had been rising and falling in jagged waves since they’d arrived crested again. The three people whose very presence tossed him from one lev
el of turmoil to a higher one were approaching him.
Anastasia, and his parents.
The one who addressed him, puffy-eyed and broken, was his mother. “Mr. Konstantinov, Ana told us everything you’ve done for her and Alex. We—we wanted to thank you, even if there’s nothing we could possibly say to express our gratitude.”
“But we are grateful, beyond expression, on behalf of everyone.” That was his father, looking nothing like the imposing figure he remembered, smaller, weaker, even helpless in his anguish. “Thank you, son.”
He’d once had a bomb shower him with shrapnel, almost tearing his leg right off. The word son from the father who’d given him away tore through him with far more force and pain.
His reaction must have shown, for Anastasia came between them, no doubt mistaking it for his dislike of thank-yous. “Ivan has a big problem with accepting thanks, so if you really want to express your gratitude, don’t.”
“But of course we have to express it,” his mother exclaimed, her eyes, glittering with tears as they fixed on his face, with something that was feverish in its intensity in their depths. A...question? “And if there’s ever anything at all we can do for you, we’d only be too happy and grateful to do it, my dear.”
The sheer kindness and eagerness in her expression, what was reflected in his father’s face as they awaited his response, felt like more stabs to his heart.
He could barely hold back from shouting, All I ever wanted was for you not to abandon me to a life of servitude.
As if feeling his critical condition, Anastasia intervened again. “I bet there’s nothing we mere mortals can ever do for Ivan.” His parents insisted that even the most powerful people had to need something, but she cut across their protests. “I’m sure if this is true, he won’t hesitate to ask. You can count on him to make his wishes known, right, Ivan?”
He found himself nodding, his gaze riveted on her face, mesmerized by what he saw. A glimpse of his old Anastasia, the woman who’d glowed with life and candor, who’d captured him from the first glance.
“But as you know,” she continued, “Ivan has already gone above and beyond and now he needs to go back to the life he’s put on hold for so long to be there for us.”
Clearly torn between disappointment that he’d leave and not wanting to impose on him, both his parents deluged him again with thanks and persistent hopes that he’d return whenever possible. It was all he could do to answer them coherently, then walk, not run, away from them.
His whole being in chaos, he felt Anastasia fall into step with him as he headed to the door. From her wary sidelong glances, it was clear she felt something was not right here, but was at a loss as to what it was and what had provoked it.
Not that he was about to explain. All he wanted now was to bolt as far away as possible from this place. Preferably to the ends of the earth, where he’d never lay eyes on his parents or the rest of his family ever again.
It would also serve Anastasia’s purpose, too. It hadn’t only been to save him from an uncomfortable situation that Anastasia had suggested he go. Clearly she, too, wanted him to leave. After all the time she’d been limited to only his company, she must have had way more than enough of it. Not to mention that he remained the odd man out here, and in this, of all times, she must be eager to be alone with her family.
But how could he just walk away this time, when he never wanted to leave her side again?
There was more to this than being unable to bear the thought of not seeing her again. Though she was out of danger, it was still a long road to complete recovery, physically and, more importantly, emotionally. She was outwardly holding together, being there for her parents, for Katerina, for the rest of the family, but he knew she was crumbling inside. And it wasn’t only the brutal loss of Alex, but her own ordeal. Most probably she’d suffer one degree or another of post-traumatic stress.
But he couldn’t help her himself now. If he stayed around to do so, he’d be too disturbed being in the vicinity of his family to offer her the stability she now needed. The best thing he could do was to make sure she had the best specialists to help her deal with the psychological repercussions. But he could not stay.