A few minutes later, I sit at the massive kitchen island, eating reheated spaghetti while Ivy talks nonstop beside me about tomorrow’s adoption event. She already has opinions about which dogs should be introduced to which families, which animals need extra treats before visitors arrive, and why Winston absolutely can’t be allowed near the raffle baskets.
“He stole beef jerky,” she whispers.
“He stole an entire bag of beef jerky,” Irina corrects.
Winston lifts his head proudly from beside the island, as if this is an accomplishment worthy of recognition.
I laugh before taking another bite of spaghetti. The kitchen feels warm and safe compared to the rest of the mansion. Cookie ingredients cover the marble island while Ivy continues chattering happily. It feels so normal. At least as close to normal as anything has felt lately.
Once I finish eating, Ivy springs into action. “Now cookies.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She gasps happily when I wash my hands and move beside her at the counter. “You said yes really fast.”
“Well honey pie, you had me emotionally manipulated the second you brought up cookies shaped like dogs.”
“That’s fair.”
Irina laughs under her breath as she pulls the mixing bowls closer.
The next hour passes in a blur of flour, chocolate chips, and complete kitchen disorder. Ivy insists on personally measuring every ingredient, which means flour somehow ends up all over the counter, her pajamas, and Winston’s head after he wanders too close beneath the island.
“Goodness gracious,” I laugh while brushing flour from the dog’s fur. “Now you look lightly breaded.”
Winston wags his tail enthusiastically like this was the goal all along.
Daisy remains glued to my side the entire time, occasionally resting her chin against my leg whenever she decides I haven’t provided enough attention. Every few minutes, I stop mixing dough long enough to scratch behind her ears or rub Winston’shead while Ivy carefully presses dog-shaped cookie cutters into the dough beside me.
“These ones are for the shelter,” she announces proudly.
“All of them?” I ask.
She nods firmly. “People adopt happier when they eat good food.”
Emotion wells up at the sincerity in her voice. Ivy genuinely believes cookies might help the animals find homes. She might be right.
“You’ve got a real soft heart, sugar,” I murmur while helping her transfer cookies onto a baking sheet.
Irina watches us from across the kitchen with warmth in her eyes before turning back toward the oven.
Ivy remains completely focused on arranging sprinkles across the cookies with intense concentration, while Daisy sprawls across my feet and Winston patrols beneath the island searching for falling crumbs.
The kitchen fills with the scent of sugar and vanilla as the first batch bakes, warm enough to wrap around me like comfort itself.
Men still move through the house speaking Russian into earpieces, and Alexei still hasn’t come home. But in here, beneath the warm kitchen lights with flour on my shirt and Ivy laughing beside me, it’s the calmest I’ve felt all day.
18
ALEXEI
The mansion goes quiet before I even step through the front doors. Conversations lower into murmurs, footsteps slow, and men who were speaking freely only seconds earlier suddenly remember discipline.
The place never reaches true silence anymore. Security radios crackle through hidden earpieces while surveillance monitors glow downstairs around the clock, but the atmosphere changes the second I walk inside. Fear does that to people. Respect does too. Most of my men understand the difference between the two, and the intelligent ones understand that both matter equally.
The bruise across my right hand aches beneath the fresh wrapping while Viktor takes my jacket beside the entrance. My fingers flex once before I curl them again, heat pushing through the torn skin across my knuckles. No one comments on it.
Luka steps forward from the hallway near the security office, tension shadowing his face beneath the warm lighting spilling from the sconces.
