He stared at the screen for a second before hitting send. Just seeing Hans’ name made him feel steadier.
He hurried to the kitchen, hoping coffee would help him survive the day. Instead, he walked in to find Viktor and Burian already seated, drinking coffee like they were civilized men instead of… whatever they actually were.
Viktor’s fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the mug, a habit he only slipped into when calculating outcomes. Burian didn’t bother pretending; his gaze tracked Adrik’s entrance as if he were assessing a threat, not greeting his younger brother.
Adrik’s muscles coiled with tension. He glared at Burian, who looked far too comfortable in a place he had no right to be.
“It’s good to have both of my sons at the table,” Viktor said, as if this were some kind of family reunion instead of a powder keg waiting for a spark.
An older woman from the house staff shuffled over, her back slightly bowed and her gray-streaked hair pinned into a tight bun that had probably been her style since the Soviet era. Deep lines framed her mouth, the kind carved by years of cold winters and harder work. She poured Adrik a cup of coffee with steady, practiced hands, then flashed a questioning look toward Viktor.
“This one speaks Russian,” Viktor said, and Adrik caught the trace of pride in his father’s voice; subtle, but there. Viktor’s chest even lifted a little, like he was showing off something he’d built with his own hands.
Adrik took the mug, muttering a thank you in Russian. The warmth seeped into his hands, grounding him.
Burian didn’t bother with pleasantries. He leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp and assessing. “Why are you here?”
The question hit him like a slap—sharp, deliberate, the blow Burian never hid. It snapped something tight in his chest, that familiar mix of irritation and wariness he only ever felt around his older brother. Of course, Burian would go straight for the jugular. Direct. Accusatory. Typical Burian.
Adrik lifted the mug to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering.Anything to buy himself a second to keep his temper in check. Why was he here? Because his mother almost died. Because he’s an idiot who keeps getting pulled back into this family’s gravity.
He set the mug down, meeting Burian’s stare head-on.Adrik leaned back in his chair, voice cool. “Same reason you are, I guess.”
Burian’s eyes narrowed.
Adrik took another sip of coffee, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue.
Burian looked at his father. “Is he returning to New York with us?”
“Ask him. He’s sitting right there.” Viktor pointed at Adrik.
Burian just glared at Adrik.
“No.” Adrik returned the death stare to Burian. “I live in Germany.”
“Why would you live there?” Burian asked. “You can’t speak German.”
Adrik barely had time to breathe before Viktor’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.
“Enough!”
Both he and Burian snapped their heads toward him. Viktor rarely raised his voice anymore, which somehow made it worse when he did. The sound hit Adrik low in the gut, a cold tightening that made his spine go rigid before he could stop it. His pulse kicked up—annoyingly fast—and he felt that old, automatic urge to square his shoulders, to look composed even as a prickle crawled up the back of his neck. Burian went still beside him, the stillness that meant he was waiting for orders, and that only sharpened the edge of irritation scraping along Adrik’s ribs. Viktor didn’t have to shout to make the room shut down.
“I’m going to explain my expectations for today,” Viktor said, tone sharp enough to slice through the tension. “Both of you listen.”
Adrik leaned back in his chair, jaw tight.Great.A morning lecture. Exactly what he needed.
“We’ll bring your mother home,” Viktor continued. “No fighting. Make her see her family is one unit again. She can fly out in five days to New York with me and whoever else wants to support her. But she hasn’t agreed yet.” His eyes landed on Adrik. “She will look for your approval.”
Adrik exhaled slowly. “I told her to go home before she was taken to the hospital.”
Viktor blinked. “You did? Why would you?”
“Her going back home to you isn’t about me,” Adrik said. “It’s about her loving you. But I expect my mother to be treated with respect.”
That landed harder than he had expected. Viktor’s expression shifted—softened, even—surprise flickering through the cracks. “Ah. I see.”
“Respect means honoring what she wants for her own life,” Adrik continued, voice steady but edged. “Let her teach at a public school. Let her earn her own money. She trained for a long time before you arranged your marriage to her. And let her skate again. Support her instead of displaying her.”
