Page 51 of The Pucking Arrangement

My mind fixates on the blaze in his eyes. The way his hand ghosted over my lower back yesterday. The deep, low rumble of his voice that lingers in my head like a song I can’t stop replaying. Him splayed on the sofa, reading poetry.

Poetry.

The memory alone makes my legs press together, my body tight and aching, clenching around nothing.

A soft thump from down the hall snaps me out of my Dmitri-induced haze. Ris must be up.

I drag myself out of bed and pad to the kitchen, grounding myself in the ritual of making coffee. Measure the beans. Grind them just right. Heat the water to exactly 200 degrees, because anything else is barbaric.

“You’re worse than your brother with the coffee thing,”Sophie’s voice teases in my head.

Before I can defend my completely reasonable coffee standards to the friend in my head, the stairs creak.

“Dobroye utro.”

Fucking hell.

Dmitri fills the doorway, sleep rumpled and devastating, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, a threadbare Defenders T-shirt stretching over his chest. His voice is rough from sleep, his dark hair sticking up in a way that makes my fingers twitch to smooth it down.

This is unfair.

“Morning,” I manage, proud that my voice comes out mostly steady. “Coffee?”

He makes a low, approving sound that slides through me like warm honey. “Spasibo.” The word is a quiet, velvety rasp.

I turn back to the coffee maker, desperate for something to do with my hands that isn’t touching him. “I thought you’d still be sleeping. It was an intense game last night.”

“Early riser.” His voice is closer now, heat rolling off him in waves. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

I keep my focus on the coffee grounds. “Ris up yet?”

“Da. Playing with her bears.” His tone softens in that way it always does when he talks about her. “They have an important meeting. Serious business.”

The image makes me smile. “What’s on the agenda today?”

He hums like he’s giving it real thought. “Could be proper tea party etiquette. Or maybe world peace.”

I glance over my shoulder and immediately regret it.

Because he’s watching me.

Not just watching—tracking. Like he’s studying me. Like I’m something he wants to keep.

His mouth curves slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. But there’s something else there. Something dark and hungry.

My heart thunders in my chest, so loud that I could swear he can hear it. Maybe this is the day he makes a move. This is fine, I try to calm myself. Just wait.

“You didn’t stay last night.” His voice is casual.

I shrug, reaching for two mugs. “Someone had to get Sleeping Beauty to bed. While you were getting crushed at chess by Adam.” I hand him a cup, keeping my tone light. “Three games in a row, from what I heard.”

Dmitri makes a low sound in his throat. “He cheats.”

“Pretty sure that’s not possible in chess.”

“You have not played Coach’s son.”

He steps closer, reaching for the mug. His arm brushes mine, and a jolt of heat shoots down my spine.

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