Something dark and possessive stirred at the sight.
Her skin was lush and olive, warmed by the summer sun. I bet it tasted as good as it looked.
But the child stood in the hall, holding the cup up expectantly for me.
“Here you go, Mr. Ivan—I mean tatko! Here’s your cup!”
“Thank you,” I rumbled in a low voice.
We stepped back into the kitchen, and I rinsed the powder, which I was pretty sure was baking soda, from the cup. A squirt of soap and the remnants washed clean.
It wasn’t going to taste like my cup. There was a reason I only put coffee in it. Only ever rinsed it and never tainted it with soap. I liked the aged musk that stained the ceramic. Not everything had to be polished and new. My house guest could clean all she wanted—the saints only knew how much of a bachelor pad this place was. But my things, my personal things, I liked them exactly how they were.
I poured the black liquid into the bottom and sank into the chair opposite the boy.
He looked at me.
I watched him with a powerful, all-consuming satisfaction.
Except…what happened now?
He was here. I had plans for his future. But in this moment, I was just existing. Waiting for the next thing to happen.
And it did quickly.
“Tatko?”
“Yes, my boy?”My Hristo. My little heir.
“Can I have some food? I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
I rose, feeling something else that was new. It was funny and warm in my chest. I seemed to hurry to the pantry, not feeling tired. Not hurting from the sparring session in the pits. My bodywantedto serve the little human and make him comfortable.
“Here we go, Captain Crunch. You like Captain Crunch?” I was already going for the bowls—which weren’t where they were supposed to be—with the box in my hand. I doubted we had fresh milk. I made a mental note to send someone to the store with a grocery list as soon as I sat back down.
“Tatko!Nnooo!” Brady gasped. “Not cereal!”
I rounded on him, confusion drawing my brows together. “What’s wrong with cereal?”
The child stared at me, eyes the size of saucers and mouth forming a perfect O.
“It’s just cereal?” His shock made me uneasy.
Shit. Was this one of the allergy things? Did my son have those? Fuck, that was something I should know.
“Tatko, that’spoison,” Brady whispered, as if he were revealing a secret that I should know.
I frowned at the box. “Captain Crunch?”
It was sweet, I’d give him that. And if there wasn’t milk to make it soggy, the damn pieces cut the roof of my mouth. But…poison?
“They use glyphosate on the wheat. They add folic B, which is synthetic, and we can’t process it.” The boy ticked off the responses on his fingers, well-rehearsed and ready. “There are other fake, processed ingredients. Too much sugar. And red dye forty!”
He gasped out the last one.
I blinked.
The fuck?Was this for real?
