Page 34 of Owned By the Russian

Her chin rested lightly against her knees, the curve of her neck graceful as she tilted her head. One hand lazily ran through her chestnut hair, the strands catching the fading light streaming through the window. The gentle movement seemed unconscious, her fingers sifting through the silky waves and brushing them back over her shoulder.

The loose strands framed her face, softening the sharp edges of her expression, making her seem utterly unguarded for the first time since they’d arrived.

“You’re such a drama queen, Rhi,” Valentina teased, her voice light and affectionate. She laughed again, the sound brighter this time, unburdened, like she’d forgotten the weight of her circumstances just for a moment.

As the conversation continued, Ilya stayed silent, his feet rooted to the floor as he watched her from his spot by the doorway. That smile?effortless, radiant?was a punch to his guts. She hadn’t smiled like that for him. Not once. Not ever.

And it bothered him more than it should have.

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he watched. She was still unaware of his presence at the door?or maybe she was and chose to ignore him. It didn’t matter. What was undeniable was the joy on her face as she laughed with her friends, a kind of warmth he hadn’t seen her extend toward him in weeks. She saved her bitterness for him, as though he were the only one worthy of it.

It was just a passing thought, he told himself. But why did that realization leave a sour taste in his mouth? Why, when he looked at the brightness in her smile, did he crave it for himself? And why did his chest tighten when she finally said her goodbyes and turned, catching his gaze?

“Thanks,” she said, the awkwardness in her tone a contrast to the lingering warmth from her conversation. “I needed that.”

Ilya leaned away from the doorframe, his mind a mess of fractured thoughts, all orbiting her at the center. “Have dinner with me.”

Her brow shot up as she dropped her legs to the floor, her skeptical expression almost enough to make him smirk. “Um?”

“Consider it a temporary truce,” he cut in, stepping closer. “I'll let you call your family. The least you can do is join me for dinner. I told you I don’t do favors for free, didn’t I?”

Valentina scoffed, the retort clear in her eyes, but she held back, surprising him. She didn’t bite, didn’t lash out, and he had no idea what to make of it.

She shrugged, masking herself with a syrupy-sweet smile as she slapped his phone into his palm. Tiny sparks shot through his hand at the contact, fleeting but sharp enough to make him hesitate. Neither of them addressed it.

“Fine,” she said, the sweetness in her tone bordering on condescending. “We’ll have dinner.”

An hour and thirty minutes later, they sat across from each other at the old kitchen table, the orange glow of the overhead light painting their faces in a soft warmth. The air was rich with the mingling aromas of freshly baked lasagna and the tangy sweetness of a Caprese salad?bright tomatoes layered with slices of mozzarella and fresh basil leaves. A small dish of garlic butter shrimp sat between them, its fragrant oil catching the light.

The lasagna sat at the center of the table, a little uneven around the edges, its golden crust glistening under the kitchen light. It smelled incredible?layers of rich meat sauce, creamy bechamel, and pasta blending into something comforting yet profound.

Valentina had insisted on preparing it herself, brushing off his offers of help with a muttered: “Just stay out of the way”. Now, as it sat between them, Ilya couldn’t help but glance at her.

Valentina was pretending to focus on her plate, cutting into her own slice of lasagna with an air of nonchalance. But he caught the way her eyes flicked up to him as he lifted his fork, the tension in her shoulders betraying her. She looked almost nervous, though she was doing her best to hide it.

It clicked for him then?this wasn’t just dinner. There was something personal about this dish, something significant, just like the pendant around her neck that he hadn’t noticed before. She had gone back to change before dinner and returned with the jewel around her neck, like she needed it to cook.

When he cut into it, the layers held together perfectly, the cheese stretching as he brought it to his mouth. The flavor was immediate, comforting. Simple, yet complex at the same time. He chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was trying to savor the taste.

Valentina didn’t meet his gaze, too focused on scooping salad onto her plate. “Well? Say something,” she said, her voice lighter than usual but still guarded.

“It’s good,” he said, his tone neutral at first, teasing even, but when he looked at her again?reallylooked at her?the slight insecure edge in her voice when she asked, “Are you sure?” made him pause. He could see it now, how much she cared, how much this mattered.

“It’s not just good,” he added, his voice softer, earnest. “It’s perfect.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he thought she didn’t believe him. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders relaxed, and her mouth curved into something between relief and the faintest smile.

Ilya was curious, though. He didn’t know her as the type to seek validation for her actions, so this surprised him. But her next words made him understand why.

“It was my mom’s recipe,” she admitted, her tone light but laced with something fragile. Something he’d never heard in her voice before. He sat up straighter, watching as she clutched the silver heart pendant and rubbed her thumb over it. It all made sense now.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever tried making it myself,” she continued. “I’m always scared to mess it up, and the chefs at home never get it right. It’s… one of the last memories I have of her.”

For a split second, Ilya froze, unsure of what to do or how to act. She said it so casually, like she hadn’t just peeled back a layer of herself and handed it to him. He was certain she didn’t even realize what she’d done. And yet, as the words settled between them, he felt a warmth bloom in his chest, a strange kind of ache he couldn’t name.

He didn’t want to ruin this?whateverthiswas?but he also didn’t want to make it obvious he was treading so carefully. Moments like this didn’t happen often with her, and he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers.

Leaning back slightly, he studied her as she focused on her plate, cutting into the lasagna like she hadn’t just opened a door he hadn’t expected her to. “She’d be proud,” he said, his voice steady but soft, hoping it was enough.

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