Page 66 of Brutal Reign
“There’s more for you.” Kin gestures to a stack of misshapen and, frankly, lumpy-looking pancakes.
“Thanks, but I’m not very hungry. Coffee would be great, though,” I say, eyeing his mug with jealousy.
“I can get that for you.”
Pavel rises from his seat, moving to the counter, where a fancy-looking espresso machine sits. In jeans and a simple black T-shirt, he looks like some kind of Viking god. The dark fabric clings to his chest in a way that makes it impossible not to remember how that solid wall of muscle felt pressed against me. Stubble shadows his strong jaw, and when my gaze drops to his mouth, I’m reminded just how talented it is.
Focus, Hope!
“Pavel can’t cook,” Kin announces matter-of-factly. “But he tried really hard.”
A surprised laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
I catch Pavel’s mouth quirking up in amusement. “Everyone’s a critic.”
I sink into the chair beside Kin, the adrenaline finally draining from my system. This morning was a wake-up call. Even though everything turned out fine, I can’t let my guard down like this again.
“I was scared when I woke up and couldn’t find you,” I admit, brushing a hand down Kin’s cheek.
“Me too, but Pavel showed me on the camera that you were sleeping.”
“Camera?” My eyes snap up to meet Pavel’s as a coffee cup lands in front of me.
He shrugs, not looking the least bit apologetic. “I have security cameras in every room of the house. Standard procedure.”
“I see,” I bite out, hoping my acidic tone communicates how I feel about the invasion of privacy. Kin is watching me closely, so I hold back from unleashing on Pavel. But we will definitely be discussing this later.
“What’s up with the jam?” I ask, pointing to the jar.
“It’s the Roossian way to eat pancakes,” Kin explains.
“Not pancakes, remember? Blinis,” Pavel corrects.
“Right.” Kin nods seriously. “Bleenies.”
“You’re learning. Next, you’ll be drinking black tea with a sugar cube held between your teeth.”
“Huh?” Kin’s head tilts to the side.
Pavel’s eyes crinkle at the corners, amusement softening his features. “Also a Russian thing.”
Pavel passes me the sugar bowl, our fingers brushing. I’m surprised to see him here at all. Simon barely took meals with us, which suited everyone just fine. Other than our late-night raids of the fridge, we were never allowed to set foot in the kitchen. We had to wait dutifully in the dining room to be served; the whole feeling was cold and impersonal. Often, I would sneak some fruit and pastries onto the terrace and have an impromptu picnic with Kin there.
Still, it’s only day one. Plenty of time for things to go downhill.
Pavel cuts a piece of the misshapen pancake already covered in jam and offers it to me on a fork. I look down at his offering, then back up at him. There’s a challenge in his eyes.
“Come on, angel moy. Kin and I made them together. Give it a try.”
My eyes narrow because he knows he’s got me trapped. Kin is watching, and I can’t refuse in front of my son. I lean forward and take a bite, the sweet tartness of the fruit mixing with the slightly dense pancake. I make a soft sound of approval and lick a drop of jam from my lower lip.
Pavel’s gaze locks onto my mouth, his smugness evaporating into something more intense. Heat flares in his eyes, and I feel an answering warmth spread through my chest. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, thick with tension.
“See? Told you she would love it,” Pavel says to Kin.
“I helped mix!” Kin announces proudly.
Before I can respond, the kitchen door swings open and Yarik walks in. He surveys the disaster zone with visible horror. There’s flour dusting every surface, sticky batter congealing on the counter, and a stack of bowls piled haphazardly in the sink.
