I handed him a pain pill. “Take this. Don’t argue.”
His eyes flashed.
My chin inched up. He held my eyes as he took the pill and dry-swallowed it. I still handed him the water.
“The stuff can wait to be hauled in until we have daylight. You’re going to stretch your legs around the property. I’m going to make coffee.” As soon as I find the coffeemaker and beans. “And we’re going to sit outside and watch the sunrise.”
His mouth twitched. “Sure, baby…but we’ll get our caffeine fix faster if I do it.”
“That’s true,” I deadpanned. “You know where things are. I’ll make an exception for coffee, but no more.”
Kirill reeled me in with his left arm. “You’re getting bossy with me, wife?”
“Someone needs to take care of you.” I bit my lower lip. His mouth dropped to my mouth. “Especially since I’m responsible for your current condition.”
His brief chuckle could be described as a sinister snicker. It was a wicked laugh that promised revenge. “Oh, baby, you have no idea how I want to talk about my wife shooting me.”
“It’s not as if I did it on purpose!” I defended.
He raised a brow. “You could have killed me.”
Then he left me there to stew in my guilt. He’d already called a truce, and he’d done nothing in the past week but try to make this marriage tolerable. And it had become more than tolerable. I’d been looking forward to Kirill coming home with giddy anticipation more than combatant dread. I’d been enjoying our time together, and I gave myself permission to explore my domestic goddess side. I failed miserably, of course,but even after my home decorating disaster, I remained hopeful and tenacious. Then Kirill came home with apology flowers, and my heart melted. It meant more than the three-hundred-grand bracelet he bought me because back then it felt like a transactional thing. Knowing the type of man he was, the leader of his bratva, a man who’d been forged in ice and had trouble finding his empathy, I could see him trying. His reactions to me lately had been more spontaneous than calculated.
Kirill returned with a smaller box that contained kitchen pantry items. He shot me one of his familiar bland looks, but I could discern the teasing line of his mouth. I was even finding his limited expressions adorable, although I wouldn’t mention that out loud. He had two types of scowls. One I found cute, and the other put me on edge. The cute one was when I’d done something mildly irritating. The other…well, that was when I feared payback, not in the fear of my life, but more of what kind of humiliation Kirill would think to inflict on me. Come to think of it, that particular scowl—the malicious one—had faded in the past month.
He handed me two mugs and pointed at the faucet, his meaning clear. “There’s dishwashing liquid in the box. Let the water run through first to clear out the sediments. It’s well water, so we should be fine.” There was also a tankless water heater, which gave us instant hot water.
While Kirill fixed the coffee, I contented myself with washing the mugs, a few plates, and utensils. I noticed the dawn’s purple light. “The sun’s coming up.”
“Coffee should be ready in a few,” Kirill replied. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“What do you have in your bag of tricks?” I asked while looking for kitchen towels. I found them, but they smelled musty.
A roll of paper towels appeared in my peripheral vision. “I need to wash these,” I told Kirill. And then it struck me how laughably bizarre this situation was.
“You’re smiling.” It was more question than statement, as if he was baffled.
I dried my hands with the paper towels. “Was I?”
“What are you finding amusing, hmm?” He drew me into his arms. The aroma of brewing coffee reached my nose, adding to my improving mood and relaxation.
I tried to find the right words, but my husband was impatient and gave me a light shake. “Tell me.”
“You won’t laugh?”
In all seriousness and as if what I was going to entrust to him was the secret to world peace, he said, “I won’t laugh. Promise.”
Oh my God, who was this man? “I’m feeling very domesticated. And here, just the two of us…” I exhaled and admitted, “I like it. It almost feels…”
“Like a real marriage?” he finished.
“Yes.” My tone was still noncommittal, like it was a question.
This time, Kirill angled our bodies, so we were plastered front to front. “Do you want to make this real?”
“Are we going to survive it? I nearly ended you today.”
“Ah, Lusenka,” he murmured. “As long as you don’t make a habit of it.”
