I lean over her shoulder, close enough to notice the faint sweetness in her hair. "The second one’s backwards. The rest are fine.”
"Thanks. I'll fix it."
I should move away.
I don’t.
I have other things to do, but none of them feel as important as watching her learn my language. She looks up at me. "There’s a word I wanted to ask you about. I tried to find it in the book but couldn’t. I can’t pronounce it that welleither. I just know it because Madam Belova used to call me that.”
“Try and say it.”
Chern…chernoma..." She pinches her lips together. “I forgot the rest."
"Chernomazaya.”
I recognize the word immediately. As if my father calling hersukawasn'tbad enough, she had to put up with thatsukaherself, Belova calling her nasty names.
"Yes. That’s it. What does it mean?"
"Black-faced."
“Oh,” she says, her shoulders lowering. “I figured it was something like that.”
Belova’s lucky she’s already dead. I move closer, not touching her. “No one’s ever going to call you that again.”
“I know, because I won’t be around anyone. You said so.”
“I know what I said. I meant, if, for whatever reason, you’re ever around other people, you won’t have to worry about that.”
She tilts her head. “Why not?”
“There’s nothing about you to insult.” I hold her stare. “And an insult to you is an insult to me.”
“Because I belong to you?”
“Yes.”
I turn toward my room before she can ask what that actually means. I wouldn’t have an answer. "Let me know if you need more help."
"I will."
An hour later she knocks on my door. "Roman. I made dinner. Sort of."
I open it to find her standing there with a sheepish smile. She’s wearing a pink sweater that’s too big for her. The neckline slips to one side, exposing not just her shoulder but the top of her breast. I can’t tell if she notices this and is fuckingwith me or she’s truly that naive, giving me this view of her breast, full and almost too big for her small frame.
My cock is hard. I’m in fucking hell, picturing those tits bouncing while I fuck that innocent smile off her face.
“Roman?”
I drag my eyes back to her face. "What do you mean by sort of?"
"I tried to make chicken and rice, but I think I used too much water."
She turns and heads into the kitchen. "It's more like soup now."
I follow her, forcing my thoughts back under control. She's my asset. I didn't bring her here for this, whatever the hell this is. I’m honestly confused. I haven’t kissed Nala. Almost, but I was strong enough to resist. I haven’t even done that— the barest of physical contact and I still can’t stop thinking about her and all the things involving her that don’t mesh with my life.
“See?” She lifts the pot lid, steam rising between us. "Definitely soup."
