Then he looks at me as he stands. “Good night, Angel.”
I nod, my voice barely steady. “Good night.”
I follow him with my eyes as he opens the door and steps out. Just before leaving, he stops and turns back. Smiling dark eyes meet mine. I’ve seen this smile before, but I can’t quite place it. My Matleon smiles mental folder clearly needs revision.
He closes the door, and suddenly I’m uncomfortably aware of my mother’s and father’s eyes on me.
I glance at them from the corner of my eye. Mom is grinning openly, while Papa watches me with pursed lips, unreadable and unimpressed.
I lower my head and stuff more food into my mouth, avoiding their eyes.
After dinner and wishing my parents good night, I come to my room and text Matleon.
“There are ingredients in the fridge of the guest house. You can cook using them.”
His reply comes instantly. “I don’t know how to make use of Russian ingredients.”
I lie back on my bed.
“There’s nothing Russian in the ingredients. They’re vegetables people use all around the world. And meat. And grains.”
“Okay. I’ll cook tomorrow morning. I’m too tired to cook now.”
I chew on my lower lip, staring at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I finally type.
“I could come there and cook for you.”
I stare at the message for a long moment before pressing send. My heart starts beating in unruly, uneven rhythms as I watch the typing dots appear.
“I don’t want to bother you. Also, I ate just now, so you don’t have to worry about me. You can go to sleep.”
My brows knit together.
“You didn’t eat anything. That much isn’t even close to the quantity you usually eat. I’m coming there. Unlock the door, I won’t ring the bell. Papa will catch me.”
A second later, his reply comes. “As you say, wifey.”
I slide off the bed, tuck my phone into the pocket of my shorts, and quietly open the window. Luckily, I live on the ground floor. I drop down and slip silently toward the guest house.
The small house we live in was originally Papa’s safe house. When he quit his position as the pakhan of the Mikhailov Bratva, he moved here. Mom loved the place, so they never rebuilt it. But since there are only two rooms, guests can’t stay there, which is why the guest house was built later.
I push the slightly ajar door open and step inside. I almost jump at the sight of Matleon leaning against the wall. The image pulls me straight into the memory of our first night at his mansion, when he grabbed me and kissed me the moment I stepped out of the bathroom.
I feel strangely at a loss when he doesn’t make any such move now and simply watches me standing there.
I close the door behind me and tug my hair back behind my ear, a useless gesture, because the strands slip free instantly, but I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Why don’t I go and prepare you some food?” I ask.
He nods.
I drag my suddenly heavy legs toward the kitchen. He follows me.
Another memory surfaces—him disturbing me while I cooked in his mansion. But now, again, he makes no move. With his arms crossed over his chest, he simply stands there. Unlike his birthday, he doesn’t stand close to me.
I take out the vegetables from the fridge.
“I’ll make noodles. They’re easy to make and—” I pause. He continues quietly, “I like them a lot.”
