“Borscht,” she announced, setting the bowls down with a knowing look that made me wonder exactly how muchshe’d overheard. “Traditional Russian dish. Good for the soul.”
The smell hit me—beetroot and beef and earth. My stomach growled, despite everything.
Alek picked up his spoon. “Eat, Eva.”
It wasn’t a command, not quite, but it was still spoken in that voice that made my body want to obey before my brain could catch up.
I shouldn’t let him order me around, shouldn’t slip back into obedience, into submission, like the last few weeks hadn’t happened.
My hand reached for the spoon anyway, my fingers closing around it before I could stop myself. I brought it to my lips. It was rich and savory and exactly what my exhausted body needed.
“Good girl.”
The words were so quiet, I almost missed them.
Heat flooded my face, shame and arousal tangling together until I couldn’t separate them. My body responded instantly, nipples hardening, thighs clenching together, that familiar ache building low in my belly.
No no no no no.
I set down the spoon carefully, my hand shaking. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His voice was still gentle, patient even, like he had all the time in the world to wait for me to stop fighting.
“Don’t do that. Don’t—” I gestured helplessly between us. “This isn’t?—”
“Isn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair, legs spreading under the table until his knee pressed against mine. “You obeyed me, baby girl. Without thinking. Without choosing.Your body knows what it wants even if your mind hasn’t caught up yet.”
“Fuck you.”
“Eventually.” His lips curved into a small smile. “But first, you’re going to finish your soup.”
I should throw it in his face. Should walk out. Should do literally anything except sit here letting him command me like he hadn’t betrayed me far worse than I’d ever betrayed him.
I finished the soup in silence. Alek watched me intently the entire time, like he wanted to catch every thought crossing my face, every flutter of shame and arousal and confusion I was desperately trying to hide.
When I set down the empty bowl, he smiled, small, satisfied, and absolutely infuriating.
“Better?” he asked.
I wanted to lie, wanted to tell him the soup was mediocre and his presence was intolerable and nothing about this was “better.” Too bad the tight anxiety in my chest had loosened just enough that I could breathe without it hurting.
“Yes,” I admitted quietly, hating myself a little more.
“Good.” He poured me a glass of water and slid it across the table. “Drink, malyshka.”
My hand wrapped around the glass, and I lifted it to my lips before I registered the command. I froze mid-sip, the water cold on my tongue.
“We haven’t agreed to anything.”
“Haven’t we?” Alek’s voice was low and dark. “Your body’s already made its choice, baby girl. The rest of you just needs to figure it out.”
Babushka appeared with more dishes—beef stroganoff, sausages over rice, more plates I didn’t recognize but that smelled exactly like comfort food.
My stomach growled audibly, despite the soup I’d just finished.
The older woman smiled at me then said something sharp in Russian to Alek. He answered softly, his tone wry.
Babushka’s expression softened. She patted my cheek gently before bustling away, but not before giving Alek a look that clearly said,Don’t fuck this up.
