Page 41 of The Russian's Bought Bride

I’m leaning against the counter, waiting for the cookies to cool, when I hear the front door open, and instantly, the fragile sense of calm fractures.

My shoulders tense automatically as footsteps echo faintly through the house, both measured and heavy in a familiar way.

Nikolai.

Part of me wants to retreat upstairs before he sees me, while another part refuses to run, so I stay where I am with my arms crossed lightly over my chest as he walks into the kitchen.

He stops the second he sees me, and there’s a brief flicker of surprise across his face. It’s subtle and gone almost immediately, but I notice it anyway.

Then his gaze shifts around the kitchen, to the flour dusting the counter, the cooling rack, and the tray on top of the stove.

“You baked.”

I resist the urge to scoff at how absurdly suspicious he sounds about it, regardless of how innocuous it is. “I did. I promise it’s not a criminal offense.”

His mouth twitches faintly, not quite forming a smile, but it’s close enough. “That depends. What did you make?”

“Chocolate chip cookies.”

“See…that’s dangerous.”

I snort softly before I can stop myself, and the sound surprises both of us a little.

Still, Nikolai steps further into the kitchen and shrugs off his jacket before setting his keys down on the counter. There’s something different about him now, like he’s not hiding his exhaustion anymore. Maybe not physically tired exactly, but worn down, which is more noticeable given his usual stoicism.

I notice the looseness in his posture, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way he exhales slowly like he’s carrying tension he hasn’t figured out how to put down.

And for some reason, despite everything, curiosity wins out over resentment.

“You look tired,” I say before I can think better of it.

His brows lift slightly, since that clearly wasn’t what he expected me to say.

For a second, I assume he’s going to dodge the question completely, but then he leans back against the opposite counter and drags a hand over his jaw.

“I had a conversation with my family that I didn’t want to have yet,” he says.

He doesn’t need to say what about for me to catch on that it had to do with me after last night.

“Oh.”

He nods once. “I had to explain some things.”

I study him carefully, looking to see just how far his honesty will go. “The hidden operations?”

There’s the slightest hesitation in his eyes before he answers. “Yes.”

Something about that surprises me more than it should. A few days ago, he would’ve brushed me off with some vague non-answer, but now, he actually sounds open. Not fully yet, but more than before. Somehow, that feels like a bridge anyway.

“How did that go?” I ask cautiously.

A humorless huff escapes him. “Better than expected eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“Nobody likes finding out they’ve been lied to.”

The words sound far too intentional to be a coincidence, and given the way he looks at me, I know he’s at least trying to be self-aware.