What. The. Actual. Fuck?
My son—my innocent 4-year-old—is perched on a marble counter like he owns it. Dmitry towers behind him, guiding his tiny hands over a spatula.
“Gentle,mladshiy. Like this—” Dmitry’s gruff voice goes soft as they flip a perfectly round pancake together.
“Look! I did it!” Elijah bounces, Pikachu clutched under one arm.
“Mommy!” Elijah spots me, face lighting up like Christmas. “The bad guys are nice now! Uncle Dmitry showed me how to make circles! Way better than your squares!”
This kid. Way to throw me under the bus.
Wait, what? Uncle. Dmitry.
“Buddy…” I force my lips into something resembling a smile, every instinct screaming as I edge into the kitchen.
What kind of twilight zone bullshit is this?
“Well, well.” Maksim’s eyes drift down my bare legs. “Look who finally joined our little breakfast party.”
My fingers itch for a weapon. Any weapon.
Movement draws my eye to the far corner. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching on a familiar broad-shouldered silhouette. Leonid. Looking like some dark god in a perfectly tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to expose corded forearms.
Fuck me.
No. No fucking way. Not going there.
His eyes drag from my bare feet, up my exposed legs, lingering on where his stolen T-shirt barely covers my ass. When they finally meet mine, they’re dark. Dangerous.
Like I’ve personally offended him by not wearing pants.
Good.
“Uncle Dmitry says I can help cook every morning!” Elijah announces, completely oblivious to the tension crackling through the air. “Can we stay forever?”
My heart stops.
“Uh…” My brain short-circuits.
Stay forever?In the house of the man I’m supposed to kill?
Sure, why not? We can have pancakes every morning with the Russian mob. Maybe learn how to garrote someone over orange juice.
“Sure… I guess.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I pinch the bridge of my nose, glancing ceiling-ward.
Hey, God, if you’re up there—what the actual fuck?
I watch Elijah beam at Dmitry, all gap-toothed innocence.
Okay. Play it cool, Clara.Just casually make your way to the—
“Want to see my pancake flip, Mommy?”
“Coming, buddy.” I inch toward the counter. Nothing suspicious here. Just a mother showing interest in her son’s culinary adventures. Who happens to be drifting closer to that lovely knife block with the really sharp— A wall of heat appears behind me.
Christ, how does someone so big move so quietly?
“Sit.” Leonid’s breath brushes my ear. His hand spans my lower back, fingertips burning through the thin cotton.
