Page 54 of Gloves Off

He says it like he means it. There’s an air of calm about Alexei’s father that I don’t see in men often. Ward has it, too. Jamie Streicher, sometimes, when he’s with Pippa and his dog, Daisy.

“You too,” I say absently.

Maria gestures to the plant Alexei’s still holding. “This is for you. Myrtle. It represents good luck and love in a marriage.”

“Oh.” I guess I’ll need all the luck I can get. “Thank you.”

I can barely take care of myself, though. That thing’s going to be dead within the week.

“Alexei will take care of it,” she adds, like she can hear my thoughts. He says something in Russian to her, glowering; she responds in a firm tone. His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t respond. “Alexei knows all about plants and flowers from—” Her gaze falls to the yellow flowers from the other week and her eyes narrow as she slowly turns to her son. “—my florist shop.”

His throat works, and he almost looks guilty.

“Your florist shop?”

“Yes.” She loops an arm through mine, leading me to the kitchen. “He worked there growing up.”

Back in the foyer, Nikita says something to his son in Russian, who answers in Russian, sounding irritated before he sighs and grabs my car keys from the bowl.

Over my shoulder, I shake my head at him, but his dad is already out the door with my keys.

Volkov calls something after him, probably directing him to the nearest source of water for his father to drive my car into.

“Where’s he going?” I ask Maria.

She just smiles that warm smile that reminds me of the way the sun looks when it streams in through the library stained-glass window first thing in the morning. Over her shoulder, she glances at her son before looking pointedly at the bags she brought. Without a word, he picks them up and follows us to the kitchen.

I can feel him glaring at my back the entire time.

“Svetta said you’re a doctor?” She gestures at the bar counter. “Sit, I’ll make us tea.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay.” My expression is apologetic. “I should be getting upstairs to bed?—”

“No.” She gestures at a chair at the bar. “Sit.”

My husband’s large, warm hand lands on my shoulder. “Sit, Doctor.”

He raises his eyebrows. I raise mine. He knows I hate being told what to do.

His expression tightens like he’s in physical pain. “Please,” he murmurs, and when he presses into my shoulder again, I sink into the bar seat.

His mom moves around the kitchen like a hummingbird, opening cupboards and drawers with confidence like she’s been here a million times while he hovers behind me, leaning against the counter.

“Have you had dinner?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“No,” Volkov says at the same time.

Maria digs into the bags she brought, pulling containers out and transferring food to plates and bowls.

“Maria, can I help?” I ask.

“No,” she says firmly. “You probably worked all day. You’re tired.”

I start to stand. “I’m not tired.”

Volkov’s hand lands on my shoulder again, pushing me back into the chair. “She’s tired,” he says, and I shoot him a frown over my shoulder.

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