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He’s misread my frown. I’m not worried about protection. I was hoping we could escape all the reminders of our situation, but apparently, even now, we can’t.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me.
“Starving,” I admit. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and we hurried to pack, so lunch was skipped. It’s been a few hours since I ate and I’m only just realizing it.
Rolling up his sleeves, he walks toward the large, stainless-steel fridge. “I’ll make us something.”
“Wait,” I laugh, “back up. First, how is there food here? This place is far away, and no one lives here. Second … since when do you cook?”
“I’ve always cooked,” he says, looking offended. “For the rest, I just messaged my team before we left the house. I needed someone to plow the snow so we could reach the cabin, a cleaner to get things perfect, and groceries and supplies so we could stay for a while.”
I nod in amazement. He’s always prepared. It’s second nature to him. I tingle with a mix of appreciation and love. Cradling my tummy, I watch Arsen in the kitchen, enjoying this home-maker side of him.
He catches me watching. “Sit,” he motions at the couch. “Relax. I’ll even get a fire going.”
“You’re doing too much.”
“Hardly.” He comes around, gently pushing my shoulders until I relent and settle on the squishy couch. He bends over the large stone fireplace; his muscles flex deliciously as he hefts a few thick logs into the cavernous opening beyond the grate. He presses a small button, and the flames burst to life. “There. That should get things warm.”
I’m already warm, I think with a coy smile. I don’t say it because I’m hungrier than anything else—I don’t want to distract him from cooking. Yet.
He stacks four russet potatoes on top of a wooden chopping block built into the counter. It’s big enough that once he’s done peeling and chopping the potatoes, he still has room to dice some shallots. Their purple chunks, all perfectly uniform, are scraped to one side. He moves with skill, the definition in his forearms obvious in the overhead lights.
Reclining on the couch, I settle into the cushions, enjoying the gentle sound of his knife work as it clicks on the wood. The fire crackles nearby, casting yellow across the polished floor, the heat making me sleepy.
This is the first time we’ve been alone like this. Half-shutting my eyes, I smile fondly at Arsen where he’s begun arranging a heavy copper saucepan on top of the stove. The first time we act like a normal couple without his staff scurrying around. There’s no one here but us. I stroke my belly with a little sigh. I wonder if this is what it will be like when we’re finally a family?
Picturing our baby but older, toddler-sized, pressing his or her nose against the big window and giggling at the geese … It has my heart overflowing. It’s easy to forget we’re in hiding. Outside these walls, there are multiple people who want Arsen dead. Some of them wouldn’t mind if I was dead too.
I start to drift off as the heat of the cabin and plushness of the couch overwhelm me.
“Galina?” Arsen calls gently. I pop my eyes open, yawning and stretching. He’s standing by the kitchen table, where two plates have been loaded with food. The scent of it reaches me—paprika, shallots, and olive oil. There’s steam wafting off the food.
“Did I fall asleep?” I ask, smiling sheepishly.
“Only for a moment. I didn’t want to wake you, but you said you were hungry.”
“I am,” I laugh. Smoothing my hair and outfit, I push off the couch with a grunt. “What did you make?”
Placing his hand on the middle of my back, he guides me to one of the chairs, pulling it out so I can sit. “Potato and mushroom Stroganoff.”
Inhaling the steam drifting off the food, I let out a gentle moan. “It smells amazing.” Plucking up a fork, I stab one of the circular potatoes. It’s clear he’s made this dish before. The potato is thin enough that I can hold it to the light and see through its transparent surface. When I pop it into my mouth, chewing experimentally, a rush of flavor coats my tongue. It’s mild but delicious; saltiness enhances the gentleness of the potatoes without overwhelming them. “Oh my God,” I manage, before scooping up a bigger mouthful, wanting to get some of everything. “This is incredible!” I mumble as I chew.
Laughing, Arsen leans forward in his chair, like he’s trying to get a better look at me enjoying his food. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Seriously, I wish you’d cooked for me sooner. I didn’t know you were so talented.”
“What sort of man doesn’t know how to feed the people he loves? There’s more to being a protector than shooting a gun.”
Mulling that over, I twist my fork into the short, flat strips of pasta until it’s too much to swallow in a single bite. Chewing half of it, I arch my back with an exaggerated moan. “It’s crazy good. I can’t get over it.”
“That makes me happy,” he says, his voice growing soft. Lowering his eyes, he pokes at the food on his own plate. I’m reminded of a time that seems so long ago … a dinner where he ate greedily, and I refused to touch my meal. He sets his fork down. “I’ve been worried about you since the moment you left for witness protection. And even after you returned.”
Oh, that’s what’s on his mind. “I was surprised you let me leave, honestly.”
“Don’t misunderstand,” he says, waving a hand for emphasis. “I struggled with it. Ulyana stopped me from getting in the way.”
I’d brought my glass to my lips, but instead of drinking, I freeze up in surprise. “She did?”
