Fuck. This is too much like a family breakfast. A family that doesn’t exist.
A family that can’t exist.
Leonid doesn’t know that the little boy sitting at the table is his son, and I intend to keep it that way.
Elijah, oblivious, shoves more syrup-soaked pancakes into his mouth, the mess spreading across his face.
“Mommy, look!” He waves a piece of pancake triumphantly before sliding down from his chair, too curious to stay seated. He runs toward the peacocks, laughter ringing through the glasshouse.
I tense, wanting to get up, to pull him back to safety. But Leonid’s hand closes over mine, pinning me in place. His grip is strong, commanding, and I have to fight the urge to pull away.
“Stay,” he orders, voice low, and my heart skips, even though I hate how he affects me. His hand stays on mine for a moment too long, and the touch sends unwanted sparks of awareness shooting up my arm.
I twist my head to glare at him, but his focus is already on Dmitry. The massive man rises, his eyes briefly meeting Leonid’s before he makes his way to where Elijah is playing. My stomach twists. I don’t trust any of them, no matter how gentle Dmitry acts around my son.
Leonid notices my reaction. “Elijah’s safe,” he says, and there’s something unreadable in his gaze. “But Mitch…” His voice turns calculating, almost casual, and a sense of dread washes over me. “He’s not as lucky.”
The fork slips from my fingers, clattering onto the plate. The sound is too loud, slicing through the moment, and I can’t hide the way my body stiffens.
Mitch.
“What about Mitch?” I hiss at him, but panic wells up in my throat.
Leonid leans in.
“We have him.” He grabs a blueberry. Pops it in his mouth. Crushes it.
He picks up another blueberry, rolling it between his fingers. “Behave, and I’ll take you to him.” The berry vanishes between his teeth with a soft crunch.
16
Leonid
Idon’t have to try hard to notice the way her olive skin loses color.
She looks like she’s about to punch me or vomit. Either one would be entertaining.
I don’t bother suppressing the smirk that curls on my lips.
I like this.
I like seeing her squirm, watching the anger and fear flicker across her face. It’s better than that calm, unbreakable facade she usually hides behind.
Give me something real, Clara Caldwell.
It’s real.
Her fists clench on her lap, fingers digging into her palms, and a spark of satisfaction lights up inside me.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, unblinking, but I know the anger is simmering.
Da,krasotka.
I shift a little closer, making sure she feels me right there. “Going pale doesn’t suit you,” I say, each word slow and deliberate. “Makes me think you’re scared.”
Her jaw sets, lips pressing into a thin line. “What about… Mitch?” she fires back.
Her eyes narrow, that fire flaring back up.
