I grab the bag of flour before my brain fully betrays me and dump half of it on the counter—and my tits. Excellent. Now I’m arousedandlook like a failed Food Network contestant.
“Need help?” he asks, not even glancing up.
“I’m doing amazing, thank you,” I manage, brushing white powder off my cleavage while pretending I’m not mentally reenacting scenes from our wedding night—with dough as the stand-in.
Alya sighs from her perch at the island. “You’re not supposed to slap the flour bag.”
“It insulted me first,” I mutter.
Lev smirks from his stool across the island, elbow propped like he’s holding court. Nikolai stands beside me on the other side, close enough that I can feel his quiet judgment humming in the air like static. He’s pretending not to be amused—but I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth as I fumble with the flour.
Small victories.
Konstantin is just to my left, and if I shift even a little, my shoulder would brush his arm. Which isnota thing I’m testing on purpose. Definitely not.
Okay, maybe a little.
Then, without warning, he shifts just slightly. Closer. Not much. Just enough that his arm brushes mine when he reaches for the olive oil.
I freeze. He doesn’t.
He sets the bottle down, wipes his hands, and finally—finally—glances at me. It’s brief. Measured. But there’s something in his eyes that says heknows.That he’s letting me squirm on purpose.
And the worst part?
I think he enjoys it.
He turns back to the counter, perfectly casual, and says, “Careful with the knife, Lev.”
“Oh! Maybe I can help you cut those—” I blurt, too fast, reaching automatically for the peppers like they’re a life raft.
Lev tilts his head at me, holding the knife with the kind of confidence that shouldnotbelong to someone who still has baby teeth in his yearbook photo.
“I’m good,” he says, slicing straight through a bell pepper like he’s done it a thousand times. “Papa taught me.”
I blink. “That’s great. Fantastic. I just— Wow, that’s a really sharp knife.”
Lev doesn’t even look up. “It’s my favorite.”
Of course it is.
Nikolai doesn’t react, but I see the faint smirk; likeheknows exactly what this looks like to someone from a “normal” family.
Which I am realizing, in real time, I do not belong to anymore.
“That’s a boning knife,” I mutter under my breath. “In case anyone was wondering what kind of ambiance we’re setting here tonight.”
“It’s efficient,” Konstantin says, slicing dough like this is all perfectly normal and not mildly unhinged. “Why train them on dull blades?”
Oh. Okay. We’re just saying things like that now.
“Cool, cool,” I say, nodding slowly. “Totally fine. Just a casual Monday. Making pizza. Letting preteens wield specialty knives designed to cut muscle from bone. Normal. Everything’s fine.”
Alya doesn’t even blink. “It’s not that sharp. He sharpened it last week.”
“That’s supposed to make me feelbetter?”
Konstantin hands me the cheese like it’s a peace offering—or a trap. I take it anyway because panic-grating dairy feels marginally safer than watching a 12-year-old julienne vegetables like he’s auditioning forTop Chef: Bratva Edition.
