Grigori glanced over at them, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face, and again his cheeks pinked, but he shrugged. “Why not. Everyone’s already heard it.”
The girls squealed and grabbed the card from Ember’s seat where she had dropped it, opening it back up, and the lyrics played again, and Grigori rushed to say, “Don’t touch the photo with your sticky fingers.”
Both quickly nodded, placing the card down on the table, and started dancing in their seats to the music.
I overlooked Ember and Grigori when she looked up from his neck, because I was pretty sure Grigori shouldn’t be kissing her like that in front of the kiddos—hypocritical, maybe, but they were young. Even if he had tilted her away from them and his hair hung down around their faces. I continued eating my cereal, raising my eyebrows at Daniil.
He was positively entertained, his eyes glued on me—and not his oldest making out right next to him—while he sipped his coffee. Especially when he had to not only clear his throat once the song ended but also nudge them with his elbow to get them to separate. They weren’t exactly quiet and had finally caught the attention of Nikki and Beth.
Ember blinked rapidly at Grigori.
Both of their breathing was damn labored.
Beth asked, “Are you two gonna wrestle again?”
“Oh!” Nikki squealed. “I bet Mommy wins again!”
I had to slap a hand over my mouth to keep my food in, and it seemed like everyone at the table had the same issue, including my parents who didn’t even try to keep from chuckling at the end of the table.
“Um…Ugh…There…Buh…,” Ember muttered incoherently.
Grigori hadn’t moved from where he was staring down at her, so Daniil sputtered, “Probably girls. Now why don’t you go upstairs—” That was all he got out because…
…a huge older man, probably seventy to eighty years old with black hair with white streaks stormed into the room, pointing a cane he so obviously didn’t need, right at Daniil, shouting harshly in Russian. I had never seen the man before and he scared the shit out of me. My heart kicked up more than a few notches and I squeaked as he, and what looked like some nasty-fatal bodyguards, stalked through the room right toward Daniil. I jumped out of my chair as everyone sprang from theirs, and I grabbed the only weapon I could find—a damn butter knife—and turned quickly, stepping between him and Daniil, but somehow managing to get the knife clear up to his throat.
He shut up then. And stopped moving.
My hand was shaking, but I yelled quickly, “Get the fuck out of our home!”
He blinked down at me with brown eyes that somehow seemed familiar, and Daniil’s hand was instantly on my mine, grabbing the knife back. I sputtered, stumbling back and bumping into him, asking, “What…what the hell are you doing, Daniil?”
“Shh,” Daniil tossed the knife on the table, rubbing my arms quickly, pulling my back flush to him. “Calm down, Beth. This is my papa.”
My jaw dropped. Oh, Christ. I managed a squeak, “Your dad?”
“Yes, now, just calm down,” he stated quietly, wrapping my trembling form in his arms from behind before he started to speak in Russian with…shit…his dad. The man I had just pulled a knife on. Albeit, a butter knife, but a damn knife, nonetheless.
I reached a hand out almost in a trance even as Daniil spoke, and I patted his dad’s neck, mumbling quickly, “I’m very sorry about that.”
His gaze flicked down to me even though he was obviously furious with his son about something, and ignoring Daniil completely, he bent down, right at eye level with me. And he stared. And then he plucked my glasses off my face and tossed them on the table. I blinked at him in surprise, and Daniil had even shut up, but his dad’s attention was on me, his gaze darting around my face like Daniil’s tended to do.
His gaze stuck on my curls, and he asked in heavily accented English, “What is wrong with her hair?”
I bit my lip, and Daniil barked something at him in Russian, but I patted said hair, and stated honestly, “Everything. It’s a pain in my behind. It seems to have a mind of its own.”
His dad huffed out a breath and continued inspecting me, and he mumbled quietly, “Her eyes are pretty.”
“Um…thank you,” I stated slowly, realizing he really was inspecting me. Like a damn dog to buy.
His eyebrows puckered on his slightly wrinkly face. “She looks like those dolls…what are they called?” My breath caught as he said, “The ones with the pointy hair and rosy cheeks and button noses?”
Daniil stilled behind me, and I stated dryly, “Kewpie dolls.”
He nodded once curtly. “Those are the ones.” His eyebrows stayed puckered, and he asked bluntly, “How old are you?”
Daniil barked at him again in Russian, but I stated, “Twenty-eight.”
“And do you know how old my son is?”
