Without another word, I drop the bloody rag and head for the door.
Viktor calls after me, “What about him?”
“Keep him alive for now,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ll decide later.”
I walk into the kitchen and stop dead.
Calina is standing at the counter wearing tiny black shorts and a thin top, a white apron tied around her waist. Her golden hair is swept up in a messy bun with loose strands sticking to her damp forehead.
She’s flushed from the heat, a light sheen of sweat on her neck and collarbone. The sight is so fucking domestic it knocks the air out of my lungs.
She looks like she belongs here. Like she belongs in my house. In my kitchen. In my life.
Olga is sitting on a stool, watching her, she’s speaking but I can’t register anything she’s saying. The whole kitchen smells incredible, savory meat, spices, fresh dough.
None of them seem to notice me until I speak. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”
Calina looks up and freezes when she sees me. Same as Olga.
“I… she wanted to cook. I told her she didn’t have to?—”
I raise my hand and Olga immediately stops talking.
Calina turns to me, chin lifting in that defiant way I’m starting to crave. “She’s right, I insisted on doing this.”
I step closer, unable to keep my eyes off her. “Did you now? So, you know how to cook?”
She rolls her eyes. “Seriously? Yes, I know how to cook. I’ve been doing it for my family for years.”
I watch her hands move with practiced ease as she folds the pelmeni. “What are you making?”
“Siberian pelmeni,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice.
I’m genuinely shocked. And impressed.
Dmitri pokes his head in. “Is the food ready yet? Because I’m hun?—”
“Get out,” I growl.
Dmitri laughs but backs away immediately. “Sorry boss.”
Olga excuses herself quickly, leaving just the two of us in the kitchen.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
She glances at me. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
She’s right. And for the first time, I realize I actually want to know them. I want to know what makes her tick, what she likes, what she dreams about.
I quickly remind myself this is a marriage of convenience. Nothing more. I don’t need to know her. But I want to.
The timer on the oven goes off.
“Dessert is ready,” she says, opening the oven. The sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon fills the kitchen.
She even made dessert.
I step closer. “What can I help with?”
