Page 69 of Savage Pakhan

Nikolai jogs to the van and opens the passenger door, snagging a few gas cans.

“You always think ahead,” I raise my voice as he powerwalks over to me.

“It’s what you pay me for.” He hands me a large red can.

Without saying another word, we pop the top of the cans, pouring the fuel onto the ruined couch.

“I’ve always loved the smell of gasoline,” I say, sucking in a deep breath.

Fuck. That’s good.

“Me too.” There is a madness in his eyes whenever there is promise for a flame.

Nikolai smiles as he drenches the couch in a flammable substance. “Ready? Are you ready?” He nearly jumps up and down with excitement, tossing the empty can behind him.

“Da. Da. Calm down. The fire will burn for a while.” I take out my pack of cigarettes, pounding the box against the heel of my hand. “Want one more?”

He takes another and rocks on his feet, waiting for me to pull out the matches.

He’s a madman.

I strike the match and the flame appears, flickering with the breeze. The darkness is still. Crickets chirp. Frogs croak. It’s peaceful.

For now.

I flick the match onto the couch, and it bursts into hot orange and red tendrils that stretch up towards the night sky. The smoke disappears into the darkness, a fog vanishes within the treetops.

“Wish we had smores.” Nikolai rubs his hands together, hovering them over the fire.

“There are human remains burning on that couch. You want that on your smore?”

“Good point. Maybe when she burns her dress? Is that happening tonight?”

This asshole. He only wants smores.

“You can make a smore in the microwave, you know. You don’t need fire.”

His eyes brighten, a big smile taking over his usually grim face. “Really? Why are we out here when the smores are inside?” He frowns, genuinely confused.

The man turns into a child when it comes to smores. I’ve never understood the obsession. I have never asked. If he ever wants to tell me, he will.

“We have to make sure nothing catches fire, Nikolai. This is not your first fire. You know this.” This time I speak in English, doing my best to not show my frustration.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

I roll my eyes at his antics.

The fire crackles and pops, shooting sparks into the air.

I look up to the bathroom window, the TV screen light flickering with a show. Mia is still in the bath which means she’s still awake.

Mia will wait up for me even though I told her not to because that’s who she is. She’ll worry.

I’ve never had anyone worry about me before. Not like that, and it makes me become even angrier at myself for allowing this contract between her and Ivan to happen. I’m ashamed of myself for treating someone’s daughter like that.

Men love to be useful, so assigning Ivan to an arranged marriage wasn’t out of the ordinary in our line of work, but a daughter? No.

Which has me hating Roswell even more.