Page 17

In the kitchen, Zukhovsky, with his sleeves rolled to show his thick arms, was stirring a pot beside Yelena. He had changed into slacks and a long-sleeve shirt. Even relaxed, chuckling, and talking with his daughter, he looked poised and stuffy.

When we entered, Yelena looked up, cheeks flushed from the stove’s heat. She smiled, the kind that made men softer just looking at her. She’d sure done a number on my brother. Zhukovsky, on the other hand, stiffened as if my presence alone might curdle whatever he was making.

“Yuriy, did you take a nap?” she asked. “For the next two weeks, I want you to think of our home as yours. I hope my dad and I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable earlier.”

“Believe me, printsessa, that’s impossible,” Stas said with a grunt. “It’s hard to make a man uncomfortable when he’s used to bathing in other people’s misery.”

“I don’t bathe in misery, Stas. As you know well enough, I drown other people in it.” My brother dug an elbow into my side, so I turned my attention to his wife. “Thanks, Yelena. This is a lovely home you have. I can’t think of a single thing I’d change, but if you have any useless junk hanging around—” I stared directly at Stas with a smirk. “I’d be happy to get rid of it for you.”

Stas’s hand tightened on the handle of the pot. Was he about to fling the contents into my face or beat me in the head to death with the pot? From the redness of his face, he was thinking something devious.

Yelena groaned and placed a hand over her belly. Zasha sprang into motion, as did Stas, crowding her.

“Baby, what is it? Are you in pain?”

She grimaced, fingers fisting the soft fabric at her belly. “I’m fine,” she said, though her voice sounded strained. “She just moved, and now there’s something uncomfortable pressing into my side.”

“She?” Stas asked. “You’re having a girl?”

“Yes, Papa.” She touched her father’s cheek gently. “We wanted it to be a surprise, but now the cat’s out of the bag.”

A niece.

I was going to have a niece.

Would she look like our mom or take after Yelena? A lump formed in my throat. Our mother would have loved having grandchildren.

“Sit.” The single word was a command wrapped in a father’s worry. Stas was already halfway across the kitchen, snagging a chair and pulling it out. “Dochenka, sit. Put your feet up, and I’ll finish the cooking.”

I nodded toward the chair. “Your dad’s right. Have a rest and don’t lift anything heavier than a teacup. You have us three men to boss around for the next two weeks.”

Laughing softly, Yelena accepted Zasha’s help over to the chair. Something so simple as sitting looked so painful when she slowly lowered herself onto the chair. Zasha brushed her hair from her face and kissed the tip of her nose.

“Yuriy is right. You agreed not to do too much this Christmas. We can handle most things.”

“Is that why the lights still haven’t been put on the roof yet?” She said it gently, but Zasha straightened immediately.

“We’re going to handle it right now. Come on, Yuriy.”

I followed Zasha out of the kitchen, and Zasha shot me a glare over his shoulder as we reached the door. “You’ve been here five minutes, and you’re already needling him. I swear to god, Yuriy, if you push Yel into going into labor sooner than expected, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Relax, little brother.” I tugged on my jacket. “If I wanted a fight, you’d know it. Stas and I have been enemies for years. What do you think will happen if we’re cooped up for two weeks and haven’t let any of the steam off? Soon we’d explode, and it’d be messy. I promise I won’t go too far. Besides, your father-in-law needs someone to keep him from choking on his own ego.”

Or he could fucking eat my dick and choke on it.

The words buzzed in my head as we stepped outside. Heat licked at the back of my neck and spread down my spine.

Stanislav Zhukovsky.

On his knees.

Choking down my cock.

Oh fuck.

My nipples tightened into an achy pinch. I blamed the cold. Zasha didn’t notice. He pulled gloves out of his pockets and put them on. I dragged in a breath, pretending the sting in my chest was just winter biting through my clothes and not whatever the hell had just flashed through my mind.

Together, we untangled the lights in the boxes on the porch. The ladder groaned as I worked my way up it after Zasha and climbed up on the roof. Cold air bit at my face, sharp and clean, and for a moment I just stood there, breathing it in. From this height, the neighborhood stretched out mostly in stillness, smoke curling from chimneys.