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“You didn’t have to go through all that trouble, though.” Yuriy took my hand and twined his fingers through mine. “We don’t mind what we eat.”

“Confession time.” She gave a sheepish grin. “I mostly put my feet up, and Zasha did the work. He should be back any minute now.”

Yuriy wandered toward the kitchen doorway, pulling me behind him. He peeked in like a curious cat, sniffing and moaning. “You’ve got the whole house smelling like a Christmas fair. I can’t wait to dig in.”

Yelena preened. “Thank you. This is the first Christmas when we’ll all be together, so I wanted to make it special. I made sbiten! Why don’t I pour us some, and we hang out for a bit in the living room until Zasha comes back?”

“Printsessa, go put your feet up.” I released Yuriy’s hand and shoved him toward her. “Yuriy, take her to sit while I pour the drinks.”

“But—”

“There’s no sense arguing, Yelena.” Yuriy took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “When your father gets that tone, even I follow him like a dog on a leash and don’t mind at all. It’s his superpower.”

He winked at me, and I nodded gratefully as he escorted Yelena toward the living room, chattering all the way. Yelena laughed at whatever outrageous thing Yuriy was saying.

My stomach growled at all the food. My eating habits had changed a lot recently due to Yuriy’s insatiable appetite—okay, and mine. But tonight, I planned to indulge myself. No way was I bottoming again for the rest of the evening. For a few days, even.

I poured the sbiten—hot water sweetened with honey and steeped with cinnamon sticks, cloves, fresh ginger, and a bay leaf. The scent made me nostalgic, reminding me of all the times I’d made the drink for us at Christmas. Just the two of us. Now she had Zasha, and I had Yuriy.

Our lives had changed a lot, but I didn’t hate the transformation.

When I entered the living room, the television was on but paused. I handed Yuriy and Yelena their drinks, then stood with mine, trying to figure out if taking the seat next to Yuriy would make my daughter feel left out. But when Zasha returned, he would want to sit with his wife.

“Want my lap?” Yuriy patted his thighs.

And just like that decision made. I sat next to a snickering Yelena, who was having way too much fun at my expense.

Traitor.

“Is this what I have to look forward to?” I asked her. “You siding with him?”

“Well, Papa, what do you expect? You falling for him shows how charming he is.”

Like Yuriy needed any more compliments. Cocky bastard was lapping it all up.

Yelena glanced from me to Yuriy, and that soft, secret little smile appeared. “You look happy,” she said quietly.

Yuriy was sprawled back on the sofa, arm along the backrest, ankles crossed, glass held between his fingers like he was posing for a magazine he was too bored to take seriously. Hair loose. Lips faintly swollen. The very picture of sin.

“Do I?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said simply. “I like seeing it.”

My throat went tight for a second, and I took a slow sip of my drink to hide it, then shifted the conversation to speak about nothing and everything. Her last doctor’s visit. About the baby’s nursery and the color not being what she wanted originally, but the painter made a mistake, and she was glad because she preferred it.

Yuriy was an active listener, asking questions as if he were genuinely interested to know the name of the paint used for the nursery or the cost of the new blanket the baby didn’t need but Yelena had to buy anyway because of the cute, tiny whales on it.

I let the sound of their voices wash over me—Yelena’s bright and animated, Yuriy’s dry and amused. It settled somewhere low in my chest, warm and unfamiliar.

Family.

Mine.

Yuriy pulled his phone out of his pocket and flicked his thumb across the screen. His easy expression slipped, a frown gathering between his brows.

“How long has Zasha been gone?” he asked.

Yelena shrugged, glancing at the muted TV. “I don’t know. An hour? Maybe a little more. Time passes fast when I’m talking too much.” She smiled, but it wobbled around the edges. “Why?”