Page 99 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"I know." Ekaterina moves closer and places a hand on my arm. Her touch is warm despite the cold. "But freezing to death in the driveway won't help your friend. Come inside. I'll make tea."

I want to argue, but the exhaustion and guilt are overwhelming. I let her guide me back toward the house, feeling embarrassed and defeated. The warmth inside is almost painful after the cold outside, making my fingers and face tingle.

Ekaterina leads me into the kitchen and gestures toward the small table. "Sit."

I sit, wrapping my arms around myself. The kitchen is cozy despite everything, with warm lighting and the lingering smell of the dinner she cooked earlier. Ekaterina moves around the space, filling a kettle with water and setting it on the stove. She pulls two mugs from the cabinet, along with a small wooden box containing various tea bags.

"Chamomile or black tea?" she asks.

"Chamomile, please."

She nods and prepares both mugs while the water heats. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable, but it's heavy with unspoken things. I watch her move, noticing the way she carries herself with quiet confidence. She's small, but there's strength in her posture that reminds me of Russ.

Does she know what her son is? Does she know that he's a mafia boss? I mentally shake my head. She must know.

When the kettle whistles, she pours the hot water over the tea bags and brings both mugs to the table. She sits across from me, wrapping her hands around her mug. Steam rises between us, carrying the soothing scent of chamomile.

"How long have you known my son?" she asks after a moment.

The question catches me off guard. "A few weeks. Not long."

"And yet here you are, living in the house he built for me, surrounded by armed guards, and worried about a missing friend." Her dark eyes study me carefully. "That's quite a lot to happen in a few weeks."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I take a sip of tea instead. It's hot and slightly sweet, exactly what I need.

"I moved in today because I sensed something had changed with Rustik," Ekaterina continues. "He's been distracted lately. Restless. More protective than usual, which is saying something." She pauses, her gaze never leaving my face. "I came to investigate what—or who—had destabilized my son."

My stomach twists with anxiety. "I didn't mean to cause problems."

"I didn't say you caused problems." She takes a slow sip of her tea. "Rustik has spent years keeping everyone at arm's length. He's charming and friendly on the surface, but he never lets anyone truly close. Not since his father died."

I don't know what to say to that, so I stay quiet.

"But lately, he's been different," Ekaterina says. "Distracted during visits. Checking his phone constantly. Leaving early or arriving late. And then today, when I arrived, I saw the way he looked at you." She sets down her mug. "How do you feel about my son, Marla?"

The question hits me with such surprise I almost drop my teacup. I open my mouth, then close it again. No one has ever asked me how I feel about anything. Foster care didn't include conversations about emotions or feelings. You survived, you followed the rules, and you didn't make waves.

"I don't know," I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, you do." Ekaterina's tone is gentle but insistent. "You're just not ready to admit anything, even to yourself."

She's right, and the realization makes my chest ache. I stare down at my tea, watching the steam rise and dissipate. "It's complicated."

"Love usually is."

"I didn't say anything about love," I say quickly.

"You didn't have to." Ekaterina leans back in her chair, studying me with those sharp dark eyes. "I've been watching all day. I see the way Rustik touches you, like he needs to reassure himself you're real. I see the way Alexsey looks at you when he thinks no one is watching. And Nikita, he's the most controlled man I've ever met, but even he softens around you."

My face burns with embarrassment. "You figured it out."

"That you're involved with all three of them? Yes." She doesn't sound shocked or judgmental, just matter-of-fact. "It's unusual, but not unheard of."

"This wasn't supposed to happen," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I was just doing research for a book. One-night stands, nothing serious." When she gives me a strange look with raised eyebrows, my face flames with heat. "I'm a writer. Mostly blogs for clients. I wanted to try my hand at romance, but I don't have a lot of experience with relationships."

"And you thought one-night stands would give you that?" she asks doubtfully.

I blush again. "It was my friend Sharon's idea, but I went along with it. I'd never done anything like that before, but told myself it was just research. But then everything got complicated, and now Sharon is missing, and I'm trapped here, and I don't know what I'm doing anymore."