My shirt.Suka blyad’.
She takes the coffee without looking at me, and there’s something so carelessly intimate about the way she wraps both hands around the mug like we do this every morning. Like I’m not the man she came to kill.
A yawn catches her off guard, and when she notices me staring, she doesn’t blush or look away like most would. Instead, her lips curl into that familiar fuck-you smirk. Even half-asleep, she’s ready for war.
“Take a picture, Kuznetsov. It’ll last longer.”
My jaw clenches.
Who would have thought I’d haveRed—Clara Caldwell—sitting in my kitchen, head tilted sideways on the counter like she’s given up all pretense? The hellcat who took down three of my men, now watching her son make pancakes with the Siberian Slaughterer.
She catches Maksim’s lingering gaze on her bare legs, and something dark twists in my gut. Before I can stop myself, I step closer, deliberately crowding her space.Mine. The thought comes unbidden, unwanted.
“You always let your victims get this close?” she murmurs, not bothering to move away. Her breath catches when my hand finds the small of her back again.
“Only the ones I plan to keep.”
The words slip out before I can catch them. Her eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, the air between us crackles with something that has nothing to do with hatred.
“Dmitry! Can I flip another one?” Elijah’s voice breaks whatever spell is building.
Clara’s attention shifts to her son, and I watch the transformation. The softness that creeps into her eyes. The way her fingers relax around the mug. Even the slight upturn of her lips—a real smile, not the sharp ones she saves for me.
It’s like watching a tiger turn into a house cat. Except I know better. The tiger’s still there, just waiting.
“This is temporary,” she says quietly, but her eyes stay on Elijah. “Whatever game you’re playing.”
“Is it?” I lean closer, letting my breath stir the hair by her ear. She shivers. “Tell me something, Clara. When you dream about killing me, is it always with a knife? Or do you get creative?”
She turns her head slightly, and suddenly, we’re breathing the same air. Too close. Her lips curve into something wicked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Maksim’s low whistle cuts through the moment. His eyes are still on Clara’s legs, and something in me snaps.
I grab her elbow, gentle but firm. “Time for you to change.”
“I’m not done with my coffee,” she protests, but I’m already pulling her to her feet.
“You are now.”
“Mommy?” Elijah calls out.
“Just getting dressed, baby!” She manages to sound perfectly calm despite my grip on her arm. “Keep making those awesome pancakes!”
I guide her toward the elevator, very aware of the warm skin under my palm, the way she has to quicken her steps to match my stride.
“Possessive much?” she mutters as the doors slide closed.
I turn her to face me, backing her against the mirrored wall. “You have no idea.”
The elevator starts to rise, and I watch her pulse jump in her throat. Not from fear—never fear with her. Something else. Something that makes this game we’re playing far more dangerous than simple revenge.
“I hate you,” she whispers, but her pupils are blown wide, and she’s not pulling away.
“Good.” I lean closer, letting her feel every inch of height I have on her. “Hate’s honest. Hate, I can work with.”
The elevator dings for our floor, and I step back, releasing her. She stays frozen for a moment, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Change,” I order, voice rough. “And Clara?”
