“In the kitchen, Pakhan,” he said, eyes snapping back to face the wall.
She could be cooking up something nasty.
“Did you clear out everything I asked you to?”
“Yes, Pakhan. Only the weed killer remains—it’s outside and locked.” He paused.“Should we be concerned?”
“It depends on how angry I make her,” I said, rubbing my jaw.“Best not to tempt fate.”
He followed me to the kitchen but held back with Spartak at the doorway.
The smell reached me first. Sweet cinnamon and oven heat rolling out into the hallway—something being made that had no connection to fertility schedules or breeding missions. Something domestic and warm and entirely her own.
She stood at the sink with her back to me, washing something. Arms bare. An emerald green top, snug enough to show the line of her shoulders. Black trousers that fitted smoothly around her ass before flaring out on the way down. The dark clothes made her hair look brighter than usual—the blonde catching the kitchen light.
Olya clocked me in the doorway and made herself scarce with the practised efficiency of a woman who had learned exactly when not to be present.
Iskra set a glass bowl to the side as I closed in.
Then I pounced.
She screamed. Something connected with my temple—solid, heavy, the dull thud of it making me blink without loosening my grip.
A glass measuring jug. It dropped into the sink.
“What is wrong with you?” she shouted, twisting in my arms.“I could have had a knife.”
A knife fight with my wife.
Naked.
Yeah.
This was exactly what I needed after that meeting.
“Wait—I have a cake in the oven,” she said, trying to free her wrist.“Vadim—”
“Olya will take care of it,” I said, and dragged her out of the kitchen.
Bogdan and Spartak exchanged a look. They followed at a respectful distance up the stairs.
My head still throbbed.
My dick ached harder.
“If my cake burns—”
“I’ll be quick,” I lied, and kicked the door shut behind us.
She turned to glare at me, rubbing her wrist.
“Grubiy,” she muttered.
Iwasa brute. But Iskra was proving to be something quite unexpected—and the distinction between the two things was becoming harder to locate with each passing week.
“You’re not much better,” I said, tracing the bruise budding at the side of my head.
Her eyes followed my hand. Head tilted. Assessing the damage with the focused attention of someone taking inventory.
