I laugh softly. Andrei cooking is still a novelty. The ruthless Bratvapakhanwho can dismantle an enemy organization, learned how to make pasta from scratch because he knows I love it.
I arrive at Andrei's later that evening with the promised bottle of wine, walking in without knocking. I find him in the kitchen, the cook banished for the night, barefoot and wearing jeans and a t-shirt. His muscled arms send a wave of desire through me as I watch him chopping up ingredients. He looks up, and a smile spreads over his face.
"Ptitsa," he says. The endearment still makes my heart skip.
"Pakhan," I reply, teasing.
He crosses to me and kisses me. It's not desperate or rough like it used to be. It's sure, and confident. The kiss of a man who knows I'm his because I choose to be, not because he's holding me captive.
When we break apart, I'm breathless and smiling. "I missed you," he says softly.
"I saw you two days ago."
"I know." His hand comes up to cup my face. "Still missed you."
I lean into his touch. "I missed you too."
It's true. Even with my own space, my own life—I miss him when he's not around. Not in a desperate, dependent way, but in a way that feels natural, like missing sunshine when it's cloudy.
He takes the wine from my hands and pours us each a glass. The smell of garlic and tomatoes fills the air, and I see bread warming in the oven.
"You're getting good at this," I observe, hopping up onto the counter.
"I have good motivation." He moves between the stove and the counter, preparing a salad and pasta sauce. "How was your day?"
"Productive." I watch him work, admiring the way he moves. "We finalized the lease on the office space. And I had a meeting with a potential donor who wants to fund our first nonprofit house for a shelter."
He glances at me, pride evident in his expression. "That's incredible, Liesl."
"It is." I can't keep the excitement out of my voice. "We could have it operational in three months. A place where women can stay while they rebuild their lives. Job training, therapy, legal assistance—everything they need."
"You're going to change their lives."
"Well, I'm going to try." I give him a lopsided smile.
He sets down the spoon he's holding and comes to stand between my legs, his hands resting on my thighs. "You already have. You changed mine." His thumbs stroke small circles through my jeans. "You made me believe I could be more than what I was raised to be. More than just thepakhan. You made me want to be better."
"You were always capable of being better." I reach up and touch his face, feeling the familiar shape of his jaw under my palm. "You just needed someone to believe in you."
"I needed you." He leans in and kisses me again, slower this time. "I'll always need you."
"Good." I smile against his mouth. "Because you're stuck with me."
"The only prison sentence I'll never be afraid of."
I laugh and push at his chest. "Go finish cooking before you burn the sauce."
He goes back to the stove, and I watch him, feeling that sense of peace settle over me again. We eat dinner at his dining table, talking about our days. He tells me about a business deal he's negotiating, at least as much of it as he can—the legitimate part. I don't want to know about the rest, and he respects that, just like I've learned to respect that there will always be an aspect of violence to him. After dinner, we move to the couch with the rest of the wine. I curl into his side, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me.
"I have something to ask you," he says after a while.
I tilt my head to look at him. "Okay."
"This weekend. Come away with me."
"Away where?"
"The Hamptons. I have a house there with a private beach. Just us."
