The Russian's Acquistion

Aleksy winced. “You told me not to be ashamed of being sentimental. Don’t be ashamed of wanting those things, Clair. I did. Then. I imagined I’d choose one of those girls after I’d made my fortune.”

“Were you in love with one of them?” Her heart stilled.

“No,” he scoffed, and her knees unaccountably sagged. “But I was arrogant enough to enjoy the idea of them falling in love with me. I was convinced I’d have my pick when the time came.”

Clair frowned, hating that word. Pick your teams. Picked last. Never picked.

Skipping over it, she asked, “What made you stop wanting that? Your mother’s grief?”

Empathy stole over her like a fuzzy veil, partly due to the vodka slipping into her bloodstream. It made her feel tender, hurting for him when she considered how painful it must have been to witness his mother’s heartbreak over the loss of her husband. At least he was there to see it and not locked up in jail….

Clair frowned into her cup, thinking the booze was a bad idea. She was having trouble clicking together important pieces of the puzzle.

Aleksy wasn’t speaking, only staring into his glass, face lined with anguish.

She watched him, his powerful shoulders crushed by a weight. He looked…lonely. Inconsolable. She ached to circle his waist with her arms and press her face into the warmth of his chest.

“Aleksy,” she began.

“Yes, seeing my mother’s pain killed whatever illusions I had of leading that kind of life. Especially since I caused her grief and destroyed the happy life she’d finally been given.” The words were dragged out of him and left on the floor like internal organs.

“Finally?” she repeated tentatively. Apprehensively. “Wasn’t she always happy with your father?”

“Of course,” he conceded with a shrug, “but they struggled for years. Everyone in Russia did. When my father organized the cooperative that bought the mill, it was a chance for a future, but still just a chance. They worked hard for every potato we ate. I should have said she finally had hope.”

He drew a long breath, seeming to steel himself. His voice hardened.

“The problem was, profiteers were moving into Russia at the same time. One tried to bribe my father into selling his controlling interest in the mill. He refused and we were harassed for months.”

Clair closed her eyes as dread stole through her. “Victor.”

“He gave the orders. Lazlo has uncovered more evidence and will make it public soon. Victor’s son knows what’s coming and was trying to discredit me by revealing my past, but the attention will turn back on him once the truth about his father’s actions come out. I don’t think you’ll be bothered too much after that,” he concluded without emotion.

When he sent her back to London, she gathered with a little shiver. She was just getting used to sharing her life, and it was almost over. Her feet hurt and she realized she was scrunching them, trying to dig into this place, not ready to be uprooted.

“What exactly did Victor do?” she asked, afraid to hear the extent of it but needing to know before he sent her away. “Did he steal your father’s shares? Take the mill?”

“A man came to our house and set it alight in the middle of the night.”

Clair gasped and covered her mouth. The house like this one that she adored? “While you and your parents slept?” Horror gripped her. “And your father—?”

“Ran outside behind my mother and me. The arsonist was still there. My father told me not to go after him, but I had had enough. I didn’t see the knife until he did this.” His hand lifted to his face, his expression twisted with old fury and fresh pain.

“Oh, Aleksy,” Clair breathed, terrified for him. Everything in her wanted to rush forward in comfort, but he radiated too much pain, as though the least thing would break him. “And you were just a teenager.” The pieces were falling together quickly now, forming a tragic, unbearable picture.

He shuddered.

“A boy’s temper in a man’s body. I would have been killed if my father hadn’t intervened. He lost his life saving mine.” He slugged the vodka and set down the empty glass with a sharp clunk. Then he looked at his hand. His voice seemed to come from far off. “I don’t remember doing it, but it’s in the statements to police that I killed the other man.”