Page 33 of Twisted Pact
By evening, the quiet feels like it’s closing in.
I change into yoga pants and a sports bra and head in search of the kitchen.
Alexei’s at the stove. The smell hits first—garlic, onions, and something creamy. He’s moving around the pan like he’s done it a hundred times. His back is to me, broad and steady. He isn’t surprised when I walk in.
“Smells amazing,” I comment.
He looks back, gaze dragging over my chest before he forces it up. “Eat with me, Zaika.”
“How generous.”
I lean against the counter next to him. My bare shoulder brushes his arm when I reach for a glass from the cabinet. The contact is brief but electric.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Beef stroganoff. My babushka’s.”
“You cook?”
“Well, I eat. Cooking keeps me alive.”
I watch him work. Pan. Knife. Wrist. He moves like he’s still armed. Domestic Alexei is somehow more dangerous than armed Alexei.
“Need any help?” I offer.
“You can set the table if you want.”
I set the table while he finishes cooking.
I make sure to brush against him every time I walk past. My hip against his thigh. My breast against his arm. Small touches that I can pretend are accidental, even though we both know better.
For some screwed-up reason, I need to know he still wants me just as much as I want him, even if he’s too noble to do anything about it.
He gives me nothing. Not a word. Not a look. Just tension wired tightly along his jaw.
We eat in the dining room at a table that seats twelve. The food is excellent, and I tell him so between bites.
He chuckles. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. I figured you had a private chef.”
“I’m full of surprises, apparently.”
“Apparently.”
We fall into silence as we eat. Not uncomfortable, but saturated with all the things we’re not saying. All the wants we’re pretending don’t exist.
I offer to clean up after dinner, and he accepts without argument. I wash dishes while he dries and puts them away. The routine is almost normal, like we’re a couple instead of captor and captive.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announce when the last dish is dry.
“Enjoy.”
I take my time under the hot water, letting it rain on muscles that are sore from the two-hour car ride. When I finally emerge, I wrap myself in a towel and pad back to my room.
Except Alexei’s there, standing in the hallway outside his door.
He’s shirtless and covered in sweat. Water droplets slide down his abdomen, disappearing into that patch of hair that makes my mouth water. His eyes find me. The temperature jumps ten degrees.
