They know my favorite.
Not because I told them.
Because they watched.
Because they cared enough to learn.
In Russia, you don’t trust people who watch you.
You suspect them.
You hide.
But this feels different.
This feels like love.
“I’ve been vetted?” I ask, relaxing into the meal.
Relaxing is inevitable around them.
Their comfort is contagious.
Juliet’s hand slides over on my thigh. “I had to be sure you were a good fit. I don’t share my family with anyone I wouldn’t kill for.”
The confession stops me mid-chew.
Not a threat.
A promise.
This beautiful, feral woman doesn’t just invite people in.
She goes to war for them.
Already has, probably, in ways I don’t know.
In Russia, when someone tells you they’d kill for you, it means something.
It means you’re theirs.
And they’re yours.
No escape clause. No fine print.
That’s not just love.
That’s devotion.
That’s ownership.
That’s everything.
I realize I’ve been looking for exactly this my whole life.
My cock, heart, and brain all respond.
“Kroshka, I…”
