All of our heads snapped toward him, and it wasn’t just because he used more informal language than we had ever heard from him.
“Whoa, now. You getting ahead of yourself, Misha. You gotta start with sodas and shit,” Juvie cautioned.
Mikhail sniffed. “I make excellent potato salad, Julien Reed. The secret is a little sweet to balance the tanginess.”
“So, you prefer sweet pickle relish to dill?” Juvie asked.
“Absolutely. Add a little of the brine and a nice spoon of sugar—” Mikhail began to go in.
“Gordon, Bobby, you think we can get back to me?” I groused.
Both of them stared at me through the review.
“Management,” Juvie muttered.
“Rarely cares for the interests of the common people,” mumbled Mikhail.
They bumped fists. I envisioned bumping their heads.
We were rolling slowly through downtown Emancipation, where everybody drove too damn slow and waved too damn much. The little storefronts along Main Street were as well-kept as ever, all red brick and sparkling glass. People ambled down the sidewalks, looking like they were talking faster than they were walking. Passing Darnita’s, I swore I could smell fried catfish and chicken, and I wondered how Scoop was doing when his shop came into my line of vision.
I should’ve felt relaxed here in the sleepy little town of my wife’s people, but something ugly kept trying to rear its head. Theory had every reason to pull away from me if I were being honest. Hell, maybe being back home made her shake off the Stockholm Syndrome she joked about having. Here, she had space away from Houston and my intense family. She also apparently was enjoying space away from my constant presence. Maybe my shorty was remembering what life felt like before me and the Bratva. Maybe she missed who she was before I fucked her into submitting to being “Mrs. Sidorov.”
I drummed my fingers against my knee. Real noticed immediately.
“You overthinking.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“You are. I know these Miller women. Trust me; if she was truly upset with you, you’d know. Every one of them would makeit clear. They’re like little freckle-faced menaces when they’re mad.”
“Maybe she fucking sick of me and all the shit that comes with me.”
The truck was quiet for a minute. Then Juvie broke out laughing so hard he started coughing. “Tired of you?” he wheezed when he was finally out of danger of choking. “Nigga! That girl look at you like you invented sex.”
“Julien,” Mikhail sighed.
“What? She do!”
Real rubbed a hand across his beard, trying not to smile. “You survive a kidnapping, torture, Siberia, and Maxim’s lifeless ass but start panicking because your wife spends a few hours without you?”
“A few hours?” I repeated. “It’s been three days.”
“Three days where she still sleep wrapped around you every night, I’m sure,” he pointed out.
I frowned. That was true. Every night, no matter how late she came upstairs from talking with her family, she slid into my arms after her shower. Every morning, she touched me first thing, like she wanted to make sure I was still there. As if there was a chance in hell I would allow either of us to go anywhere.
But still…
“Shorty been acting strange,” I muttered.
Real and Juvie exchanged a look. That made me narrow my eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” both of them said too fast.
That shit was suspicious. Very suspicious. Before I could press, my phone buzzed in the cupholder. Theory’s name flashed across the screen. Everything in me relaxed instantly. A nigga had it bad. It was pathetic, really, and I had no fucks to give.
“Milaya?”
