The dogs give me a pleading look to please not kick them off, so I don’t. I pet them and keep my eyes on the man who’s been ignoring me all week. “I had an interesting phone call with my mom today.”
“Oh yeah?” He takes a drink and steps into the living room, taking the seat across from where I’m sitting. His knees and arms are spread wide, the glass in his hand and a wicked glint in his eyes. The man takes up so much damn space. He enters a room and it instantly grows smaller.
I sit up, trying to not feel so intimidated by him. “Seems some sort of foundation came across her name and decided to pay for all her treatment. They even got her in with the best oncologist in the city.”
“Well, that’s fortunate. I’m sure she’s happy about that. What’s the name of the foundation?”
“The Cubby Bear Foundation,” I say, and he nearly chokes on his drink.
He lets out a harsh laugh. “That’s a really fucking stupid name.” Pulling his phone out, he angrily swipes his finger across the screen, sending a quick text to someone before putting it away again.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” I ask.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I run my fingers over Graza’s back, stroking his silky fur while I study Volodya. “Fine. Play dumb all you want. I know it’s you, and usually I’d call you out on it and insist you tell me the truth, but this is for my mom, and I haven’t heard her sound this happy in a long time. I have no idea why you’re choosing to do it, but thank you.”
He stays silent and takes another drink, and god is it infuriating. Giving Graza another pet, I stand up, deciding I’m way too tired to deal with all this.
“Leftovers are in the fridge if you want them. I guess I’ll see you again in a week.”
When I start to leave, he says, “I’m taking care of supper tomorrow, so don’t cook.”
“You mean you’re actually going to be here?”
He lifts his glass again, and this time I notice the red on his hands.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, stepping closer. He lifts a dark brow at me when I grab his arm to get a closer look. “Is that blood? Are you covered in dried blood?” Before he can answer, I’m kneeling before him, pulling his sleeve up and searching him for injuries. “Are you hurt? Do you need me to take you to a doctor?”
His laughter is the last thing I’m expecting. I drop his arm and glare at him. “I’m glad this is so fucking funny to you.”
“I’m not hurt,kiska. It’s so sweet that you worry, though.”
“So what, did you kill a guy tonight?”
A smile plays at the corner of his lips. “Do you really expect me to answer that?”
“How many people have you killed, Volodya?” The question comes out in a whisper, and I’m not really expecting an answer, but he reaches his hand out, stroking my cheek with one of the fingers that’s covered in some poor fucker’s blood.
“Too many to remember,” he says, but he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He doesn’t give me a haggard look. He’s not a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders who’s haunted by his guilty conscience. He seems perfectly at peace with it. The only thing I see written on his face is desire, but beneath that is a stubbornness that refuses to let him act on it. He’d crossed the line when he’d kissed me in the kitchen, and he’s determined to not cross it again.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell him, because if I stay here any longer, I’m going to do something really embarrassing like crawl into his lap.
“Sweet dreams,kiska,” he murmurs, stroking my cheek one last time before I stand and force my feet to move.
“Night, Volodya,” I say on my way out, ignoring the voice in my head that’s pleading with me to go back to him. I don’t fall for people this quickly. I’m usually pretty damn level-headed and in control of my emotions, but something about that man makes me feel like I’m spiraling out of control, like I’ve lost my footing and I’m just waiting to fall. He knocks me completely off balance.
I go to my room, but it takes me a long time before I’m able to fall asleep. The next night I’m not sure what to expect. I do as he said and don’t prepare supper. When I’ve just about convinced myself that he’s actually not going to show, he comes walking in with a bag of groceries, and as soon as the dogs see him, they go nuts. They’re always excited when he comes home, but tonight they go absolutely berserk.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask him.
He puts the bag on the counter and says, “Steak night,” as if it’s a no-brainer.
I watch him start to prepare everything and then follow him to the veranda. He gets the grill started and throws on the potatoes, and while those start to cook, he throws the ball for his dogs.
“This is why you smelled like a grill,” I say, muttering to myself.
“What?” He tosses the ball again and watches me.
