Page 64 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

She nods and pushes a cup toward me.

I take it and step outside.

The yard is small and uneven, grass worn thin in patches, a narrow path leading toward the fence. Trees press in close enough to block most of the road, and one of Maksim’s men moves along the edge, turning his head just enough to cover every angle.

I walk the length of the yard once, then again, letting my body loosen where it can. My ribs pull, but less than before. I breathe deeper on the second pass and keep going.

“Don’t wander too far,” the guard says.

“I’m in the yard,” I answer without looking at him.

“You’d be surprised how far people go without noticing.”

I stop, turn, and look at him straight. “You’d be surprised how much I notice.”

He holds my gaze, then nods once and looks away first.

I turn back and he keeps walking.

Maksim joins me with a cup of tea still steaming in his hand. He takes one sip, and his eyes change.

“This is good,” he says.

I look at his face, at the faint crease near his eyes, the way his mouth eases for half a second over one hot cup of tea. Small things get through to him. He’d hate that I noticed.

Then his phone buzzes.

His face shuts down at once, and the Pakhan is back before he even looks at the screen.

I walk inside and find Irina in the kitchen. She tells me no when I reach for the dishes, so I ignore her and start drying bowls because my hands need work before my head starts eating itself.

After a minute, she glances toward the window. “There’s a small grocery nearby.”

Maksim is already at the kitchen door, one hand on the frame, one ankle crossed over the other. “Let’s go.”

Irina hands me a cloth bag.

I take it, and we walk.

The guard walks behind us, casual enough to pass for a man on an errand. Inside, he stays near the door, where he can watch the street through the window and the cashier behind the counter.

The shop is narrow and warm, with canned fish by the entrance, pickles along the wall, bread in paper sleeves, potatoes in crates, tea packets on a wire rack, and a freezer case humming too hard. Maksim takes a basket before I can.

“I can carry groceries,” I say.

“You can choose them.”

“How generous.” I scowl at him.

“I’m improving,” he says and drops the eggs into the basket.

The cashier keeps her eyes on the register, wisely unavailable for couple warfare.

I choose buckwheat, lemons, apples, eggs, sour cream, black bread, ginger biscuits, and a small jar of honey for Irina, even though she’ll pretend she didn’t ask. Maksim adds butter, smoked fish, broth bones, and a box of tea after he sees me touch it.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“You touched it.”