I saw Igor's body tense. This was the Bratva symbol, the mark of his identity and power. And my five-year-old daughter was pointing at it with pure, innocent curiosity.
"It's a double-headed eagle," he answered in a gentle, patient voice. "But it's kind of like a bird."
Stella reached out her small hand and touched his tattoo with her fingertip.
In that moment, I felt something. The power of blood. This was what I'd been denying for five years, but now, watching my daughter approach this man with such natural ease, I couldn't deny it anymore. This was his daughter. This was the connection between them. Even though he'd never known, even though this connection had never been acknowledged in her life, it was there—in her blue eyes, in her stubborn expressions, in her inexplicable trust of this strange man.
While my thoughts churned, Igor stood up.
"I'll make you breakfast." I heard Igor say with that infuriatingly confident tone.
This was going to be a disaster. This man in his custom suits—his knowledge of kitchens probably came entirely from movies.
I was right. He tried to make Russian pancakes, but I heard the pan's harsh sizzling—the kind that meant he'd just made some catastrophic error. When I finally couldn't help walking into the kitchen, I saw a completely ridiculous scene.
This tall, tattooed man was wearing a pink apron, flour covering his face and hair. In the pan before him, what might once have been a pancake had becomecharcoal.
"Are you trying to burn down my kitchen?" I said sharply, snatching the spatula from his hands.
Watching his large frame fumbling awkwardly in the kitchen, watching him try to hide a sheepish smile... even though I acted annoyed, it made something inside me soften.
Not good. This was very not good. But I couldn't stop it.
Chapter Eighteen
Elena
"Move," I ordered, nudging him aside with my shoulder. "I'll do it."
He didn't argue. He stepped back—but he didn't leave the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, and watched me. I felt his stare like heat at the nape of my neck. I forced myself to focus on the motions—cracking eggs, whisking batter, tending the pan—habits I'd done a thousand times; under his gaze, even the simplest tasks felt off.
"You've always been this good at taking care of people?" he asked suddenly, his voice low and still husky from sleep.
My hand hesitated for a beat, then kept pouring batter into the pan. "I'm just making breakfast," I said, flattening my tone on purpose.
"Five years ago, you'd make me Russian pancakes on weekends," he said, as if remembering. "You always drizzled honey and brewed black tea."
His words cut through me like a blade. I remembered those lazy mornings—him wrapping his arms around me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder while I cooked.
"That was a long time ago," I said, flipping the pancake without looking at him.
"For me, it was yesterday."
I shut my eyes and inhaled, refusing to follow that dangerous thread. Igor wasn't giving up the connection between us, but I'd spent five years burying the past. I wasn't going to let him pull me back so easily.
The pan hissed. The pancake's edge began to smoke. I killed the heat and slid it onto a plate. "Go get Stella for breakfast," I said, keeping my back to him, keeping my voice steady. "The pancakes are getting cold."
A few seconds of silence, then his heavy, slow footsteps left the kitchen.
I braced my palms on the counter and closed my eyes, forcing my breath to slow. This was dangerous. His presence, his words, the memories he'd dug up—everything was gnawing at the defenses I'd spent five years building. Worse, I could feel those defenses softening, bit by bit.
Breakfast was strangely quiet. Stella poked at her pancake from her little chair and kept sneaking looks at Igor. He ate with that effortless, composed manner, as if sitting there were the most natural thing in the world.
"Mommy makes the best pancakes!" Stella announced, sweet as sugar.
"Yes," Igor agreed, eyes on me. "Your mom has real talent."
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I looked down at my plate.
