“Then he touched my shoulders and told me to stop. I thought it was a sick game the Mask was playing on me, so I squeezed my eyes tight and continued touching myself. Then a loud gunshot startled me, and I opened my eyes. The man shaking my shoulders was Owen Taylor. He saved me.”
Another poignant silence stretched between us. We had discussed Owen only briefly at this point, so I knew Marcel would have questions. Ones I didn’t have answers to, but I would try to give him everything I knew.
“How did Owen know where you were?”
“I don’t know, honestly. He had plans to tell me. Even tried to a couple of times, but I wasn’t ready. He wrote everything down for me in a letter, just in case. The night of the fire, the paper that burned. It was his letter to me. I was frantic about wanting to leave, but I couldn’t. Not without it. I’d moved it into my side table.”
“It’s okay. I believe you,” Marcel said sweetly to me.
“I always wondered if he was an undercover agent and posed as an audience member to gain access or if he was hired by someone who was an audience member. Your guess would be as good as mine.”
“We may never know the truth, but I’m glad he rescued you, Ms. Taylor.”
“I did it.” I nodded at Dr. Marcel, relief surging through me. I hugged him and cried in his arms, thanking him between sobs.
The door creaked behind us, and Sebastian waltzed in. “Marcel, you’re constantly making this girl cry. We’re going to have to work on that,” he teased, leaning over and kissing me on the top of the head.
Sebastian was exactly like I imagined him to be. There was something unreal about how much he reminded me of Nik—same confidence, same easy charm. But seeing him in person hit different. Taller than I expected, sharper too, with black hair and those striking blue eyes that caught me off guard. A sudden wink pulled me out of my head, scattering my thoughts.
“It’s not my fault she has an endless supply of crocodile tears and cries at the drop of a hat,” Marcel teased.
I pushed him. “Jerk.” The two of them exchanged grins.
“Torturer, what are you up to?” I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes.
“Something I’m sure will make you cry and cry and cry. Let’s hope it will be a good one.” His eyes gleamed. “I need you to come with me,” he said, holding out his hand. I took it and let him lead me across the hall to the media room.
They put me directly in front of the large-screen TV and stepped back. Pressing the power button had an image popping up on the screen. Seeing it caused me to feel faint. My heart began beating out of my chest as they pushed play. There I was, seven years old, standing proudly next to Pasha. It was a video from our last recorded performance together—the one I had shared with Alek on the night I bathed him.
I stood there completely stunned as the video footage of us practicing played. My silly admission declaring Pasha would be my husband one day and how we’d make beautiful dancing babies.
In my heart, I knew it was coming, our ritual. I could barely breathe. Tears streamed down my face, and my emotions swirled like I was in some kind of time warp. Our young bodies moved through the ritual, and I whispered the words. Then, oh god, they panned out from me and Pasha, sitting side by side with my head on his shoulder, resting betweentakes, and there they were, my beautiful parents standing next to his.
I lost it as the video moved to the actual performance, screaming, “Go back, please, go back!”
Whoever was controlling the video rewound it to the frame with my parents and paused it. I fell to the floor, whispering, “Papa, Mama.” I cried so damn hard. All the sweet memories I had of them rushed over me like a raging river. I was overcome by waves of dizziness, and I sucked in air, feeling as if I might drown in the flood of emotions.
Sebastian was right. I had an endless supply of tears as they fell from my eyes. Suddenly, a figure moved in my peripheral vision, and I knew instantly who it was.
He sat directly in front of me, but I stared at his feet. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Wiggling his manly toes, he put them over the top of mine as he used to. Then he lined them up. I moved my body instinctively, lining up our shoulders and knees as best I could. It was harder now that he was grown.
“Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to knee,” our voices rang out together. “I love you, and you love me.” Our voices broke together, and the door to the media room clicked shut, leaving us alone.
He was here, in the flesh, my Pasha. And not on a video. Without hesitation, I leaned into his arms. The familiarity rushing back to me in intense waves. It was as if we were children again, and I buried my face in his shoulder. His scent washed over me, a blend of cologne and fresh linen. The tension in my body melted away, replaced by a deep sense of belonging.
“You’re really here,” I cried.
“Yes, Mouse, and I’m not leaving.”
“I’ve missed you,” I murmured against his shoulder, my voice thick with emotion.
He pulled back, just enough to look into my eyes, his smile both gentle and reassuring. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve missed you more,” he breathed, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back.
Sitting there on the floor, wrapped in his embrace, I basked in a wave of nostalgia and safety. His strong arms and the steady rhythm of his breathing. All of it brought back so many memories—it all combined to make me feel anchored and at peace.
Pasha and I sat talking for hours that night. I cried and laughed and then cried some more. Sebastian and Marcel came to check on us, and as soon as they walked through the door, I leaped up and hugged them both, thanking them for bringing Pasha.
They wanted to see the video footage he had brought, so I let it play through, knowing it was my copy and I could now see my parents anytime I wanted. My face hurt from smiling so much, and pride filled me as they watched the performance.
