Page 59 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

Alex didn't pick up on the tension crackling between the adults. He tugged on Ivan's sleeve, pulling him toward the table. "Ivan, let's eat. Mommy made roasted potatoes. They smell so good."

Ivan let himself be pulled forward a couple of steps, his feet following reluctantly, forced into a seat at the table.

Chris turned his head toward me, lowering his voice. "Who is this?"

I squeezed his arm, leaning close to his ear, my voice dropping as low as it would go. "He's Alex's father. I don't want anything more to do with him. Help me out."

Chris didn't ask questions. He just nodded slightly.

He slipped an arm around my waist and guided me to the table, pulling out my chair, then taking the seat beside me.

Ivan had already sat down. The silverware lay in front of him, knife and fork arranged neatly on the napkin, but he hadn't touched any of it. He just looked up at me, silent, that gaze heavy and suffocating, like a hot piece of iron pressed against my skin, burning me everywhere.

I deliberately avoided his eyes, ladling out a bowl of stew and passing it across the table. "Mr. Volkov, try some. Should still be hot."

That "Mr. Volkov" was enough to put distance between us.

Ivan's fingers clamped down on the table's edge. The wood nearly splintered under his grip. His gray-blue eyes looked like they were cracking, rage churning inside them.

But he didn't explode.

He just laughed. A short sound, so short it sank cold into my bones.

Chris sat beside me, casually placing a cut piece of steak on my plate, chatting like it was nothing, smiling as he told me about passing a flower shop this morning and seeing fresh champagne roses, petals still damp with water, lined up in buckets by the door.

"That must've been beautiful," I said.

"Yeah, I'll pick up a bouquet for you tomorrow."

I smiled and agreed.

Ivan's movement stopped. His spoon clinked against the edge of the bowl, a faint, brittle sound.

Alex was chewing on a roasted potato, a bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth, mumbling as he leaned over. "Ivan, why aren't you eating?"

Ivan turned to look at him, his mouth pulling into a curve. That smile sat wrong on his face, light and unnatural.

"I'm a little thirsty," he said.

Alex made an "oh" sound and obediently grabbed the glass water pitcher, pouring it into his cup.

Ivan drank one glass, then another.

I ducked my head, guilt gnawing at me. I knew he wasn't thirsty. He was too angry, so angry he needed to keep drinking water to drown the fire threatening to burst out of his throat.

Chris acted like he hadn't noticed anything wrong, still smiling and chatting with me about the flower shop, about how that pot of mint he'd bought last time was growing.

The meal dragged on forever.

Ivan didn't say another word. His leg under the table kept brushing against my ankle, forcing me to tuck my feet under my chair.

Finally, we finished eating. I suggested we walk Mr. Volkov out while it was still light.

Ivan stood beside me and laughed.

He turned his head to look at me, then at Chris, who was bending down to clear the dishes.

"You're making him stay and telling me to leave?"