Page 31

“Because a man can only skulk around a converted house of God with two dogs named after Slavic myths before he becomes a cautionary tale,” he says, and his eyes are bright with humor. The sight makes me itch a little, in my gut. He hunches forward, dramatically dunking his chin towards his chest and contorts his features cartoonishly. It can’t be comfortable to contort like that with his injury—and it doesn’t stop him. “All I’d need is an organ. They’ll be calling me Quasimodo.”

I hate that he can make me laugh.

What in the world does that say about me? I haven’t forgotten the events that have gotten me here. How could I? Look what he’s done to me. Look at everything that’s happened in a matter of days. My life is altered at his behest. His violent world and persevering wit can’t just change that for me. This isn’t some ridiculous romantic comedy.

He watches me with an expression I’ve got no words for. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it awe. But why would I incite such an emotion from him? With a hard swallow, I look away.

“What?” I ask, my hands combing through my hair.

“Nothing,” he says.

I nod, still avoiding his gaze. “Where’s the kitchen, Quasimodo? All this life-saving has made me very hungry.”

I don’t really need him to tell me. This place is as open-plan as it gets. The kitchen, which is as soulless as the rest of it, is to the left of the living room. A week ago, I would’ve called this apartment the opposite of my apartment for a different reason. Standing in it now, I miss the cabinets I’d painted butter yellow.

But I have to admit his refrigerator kicks my refrigerator’s ass. It’s enviously well-stocked. If he minds that I’m essentially rifling through his things, he doesn’t mind enough to say anything about it. I can sense him lurking behind me as I open cabinets and eye his collection of olive oil, spices still sealed in their packaging, even a bag of arborio rice that’s yet to be used. He doesn’t have to tell me that he pays someone to do the cooking for him.

I hadn’t realized, truthfully, how fried my nerves were until my hands have a purpose. I really am my mother’s daughter. It may not be often that I get to cook for the joy of it as much as I do to sustain myself amidst mountains of work surrounding me on weekdays and weekends alike. But when I do, it feels like a slow and methodical reset for my nervous system.

It’s easier than one would think to lose myself in the rhythm of it. The knife against the cutting board, the sizzle of oil in a non-stick pan, and the smell of cooking garlic perfuming the room, transforms this space into something resembling a home in a matter of minutes. That’s what the simple act of making a meal can accomplish.

I’m dicing an onion when a large, male hand covers mine. I hadn’t heard him coming, but I don’t startle.

“I can cut,” Leonid murmurs. His breath is warm against my cheek.

My shoulders are wound tight enough to ache. Acutely aware of every movement I make, I relinquish the task to him.

“Okay, thank you,” I say. I try to tuck my hair behind my ear with the back of my wrist, because my fingers smell like garlic now—and he reaches out and fixes the strands when I fail. Such a casual touch. One that he has no right to take liberties with.

I put distance between our bodies, making myself focus on the chicken. It hits the pan and sizzles and steams. The action feels forced instead of meditative now, as his attention weighs on me.

I’m not sure whether to be grateful or peeved that he doesn’t make any further attempts at conversation. We work in silence for the next thirty minutes—and, when it’s done, I plate two servings. Side-by-side, I set them at the kitchen island. Somehow, I don’t think he’d like to return to the couch or the dining table I spy out of the corner of my eye.

Apparently, all it takes is food for the dogs to reappear. I don’t question when and how they were moved here, when I’d seen that at the church last. I can’t help my smugness when both Dobermanns forsake their owner to station themselves at my feet.

“It’s because they know you’re the weaker one,” he says, but there’s no bite to the words.

“One man’s weakness is another’s generosity,” I counter, and defiantly slip Mara a bite of the chicken after I’ve blown on it and cooled it down some.

“Looks more like you’re bribing her love,” he observes bluntly. “Why do you feel the need to do that?”

The question is so audacious, and presumptuous, and—“Why did you ask me to kiss you the other day?” I blurt back.

Maybe my name should be Medusa instead. I turn Leonid to stone. The voice in my head screeches to seize this opportunity to run out of here like a bat out of hell. To go, as fast as I can, back to my life—back to a self I can recognize, because this woman isn’t her.

As if he heard my thoughts, the man beside me turns on his stool. His good elbow, free of a sling, is propped up on the island. He looks right at me, but his expression is unfathomable to me. Especially as he asks, “Why does a man typically kiss a woman, Meera?”

Primly, I answer, “Presumably, because he wants to?”

I can see him bite back a smile. “All right, smartass. Why does a man typically want to kiss a woman?”

“Pheromones,” I answer immediately. His grin is out now, regal and lethal in equal measure. Quickly, I shake my head. “Okay, no. See, you aren’t just a man. And I’m not just a woman. It’s complicated. You—”

“I agree,” he cuts in, distressingly calm. “I am the man who bought you as the only lead to a fucked situation. And you… are the most breathtaking woman I’ve ever fucking seen. I have no right to want to kiss you. Yet that isn’t stopping me.”

I could argue that it doesn’t mean much. How am I meant to know, just how many women he has or hasn’t seen? Where does the yardstick even extend to? These are semantics I crave tugging in between us. Because, suddenly, he’s too close.

It sets my heart astray, wild. My mouth opens, yet words fail me.