"You're unusually quiet," Nicolai observed, his voice rumbling through the small space between us. "No clever remarks about crime bosses doing dishes?"
I kept my eyes on the soapy water. "I'm saving them up, building a stockpile for future use."
He chuckled, a deep sound that I felt more than heard. "Your sense of humor is... refreshing."
"Most people call it annoying," I admitted, scrubbing the pot with more force than necessary.
"I'm not most people."
No kidding. Most people didn’t make me feel like I was simultaneously in danger and the safest I've ever been.
The kitchen was warm, steam rising from the hot water, and I was acutely aware of the heat radiating from Nicolai's body just inches from mine.
We continued our careful choreography—me washing, him drying, both of us avoiding direct contact while seeming to gravitate closer with each passing item.
"So," I ventured, desperate to break the loaded silence, "bear shifter. That's got to be interesting at airport security."
His lip quirked. "I have private transportation."
"Of course you do. Let me guess—a jet with 'Crime Airways' painted on the side?"
"Just a discreet logo," he replied with mock seriousness. "Bears don't like to advertise."
I snorted, surprised by his humor. "Good to know."
I handed him the pot, our fingers brushing. This time, I didn't pull away quite as quickly. His eyes caught mine, holding my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Something wild flickered in their depths—something that made my heart stutter in my chest.
Warning bells clanged in my head. This attraction made no sense. Stockholm syndrome wasn't supposed to set in thisquickly. And yet, here I was, noticing the curve of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip, the way his shirt stretched across his chest when he reached to place a dried bowl in the cabinet.
Mishka, you disaster. Stop ogling the supernatural crime boss.
"How long have you been running from O'Rourke?" Nicolai asked suddenly, breaking into my inappropriate thoughts.
I blinked, refocusing. "About three months. Ever since his people identified what I could do."
"And before that?"
"Normal life, or as normal as it gets when you can manipulate electronics with your mind." I shrugged, passing him another utensil. "I was a cyber-security consultant. Ironic, right?"
"Using your abilities professionally?"
"Sometimes," I admitted. "Though most clients didn't know that was how I found their vulnerabilities so quickly."
He nodded, as if filing away this information. "And family?"
"None that would notice I'm missing." I kept my tone deliberately light. "My mother died a few years ago. Father was never in the picture. No siblings."
Something changed in Nicolai's posture—a subtle shift that brought him fractionally closer. "You're alone."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "I'm used to it."
"Perhaps you shouldn't have to be."
The words hung between us, loaded with meaning I wasn't ready to examine. I reached for the last spoon at the same moment Nicolai moved to take a clean glass from the drying rack, and suddenly we were colliding—his solid chest against my shoulder, his arm brushing mine, our bodies connecting in a half-dozen places at once.
Time seemed to stop.
I froze, the spoon slipping from my fingers to clatter in the sink. Every point of contact between us burned, electric in a waythat had nothing to do with my abilities. I looked up, finding his face inches from mine, those dark eyes intense and hungry.
