“Ow! Violence!”
“You earned it.” I scowl. “So,” I say again, face still burning, desperately trying to redirect. “You gonna sit there judging my technique, or—?”
Lev reaches over, dips his finger straight into the batter bowl.
I slap his hand. Hard.
“Ow!” He yanks it back, sucking his finger with an injured expression. “Rude.”
“There are literally three grown men in this kitchen, and you go for the raw batter like a five-year-old?”
“It’s good!”
“It’s salmonella.”
Boris shakes his head, pulling a pastry from his bag. “This is why I brought reinforcements.”
“Your faith in me is touching.”
“I have faith,” he says through a mouthful of croissant. “I also have survival instincts.”
I glance toward the balcony door, where Gordo has abandoned Dima and is now sitting with his nose pressed to the glass, tail twitching.
“Lev, can you let him out? And water the herbs while you’re at it?”
Lev’s head whips around. “Do I look like a gardener?”
“You look like someone sitting on his ass while I cook.”
“I’m providing moral support.”
“You’re providing a headache. The watering can’s right there.”
He groans—long, loud, theatrical—but slides off the counter.
“Unbelievable. I’ve killed men for less than this.”
“The basil thanks you for your service.”
He mutters something in Russian that’s definitely not a compliment, but he opens the door. Gordo streaks out like he’s been freed from prison. Lev grabs the small watering can from the corner, stepping onto the balcony with all the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad.
I turn back to the stove, pouring batter into the pan. The apartment goes quiet except for the sizzle of butter and Lev’s continued grumbling outside.
I can feel them behind me. Dima and Boris. Not moving, not speaking. Just… there.
It should make my skin crawl. The weight of their attention. The knowledge that they’re trained to watch, to assess, to see weaknesses.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, there’s something almost solid about their presence. Like sentries. Like if the world tried to crash through that door right now, it would have to go through them first.
I’ve spent my whole life being watched—by managers who didn’t trust me, by men who wanted something, by a city that couldn’t care less if I disappeared tomorrow. This is different. This feels like beingseen. And weirdly, impossibly… protected.
The thought settles in my chest, warm and dangerous.
I shake my head, focus on the pancake browning in the pan.
Don’t get comfortable,I tell myself.Comfortable gets you killed.
