Now it’s time for dessert, a simple apple cinnamon crumble I threw together with what I could find. The moment I set it down, Maxim’s eyes light up in a way I’ve never seen before.
He has a sweet tooth. I realize it instantly when he barely lets Dmitri and Viktor touch it.
“Dinner was enough,” he says firmly, voice leaving no room for argument. “You two can retire for the night.”
Dmitri groans dramatically. “But she made it for us?—”
“Out.”
Viktor just shrugs and stands up, clearly not caring either way. Once they’re gone, it’s just the two of us at the long dining table.
I watch him take a bite of the warm dessert. He closes his eyes again, savoring it, and I can’t help but ask, “Do you like it?”
He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, and looks straight at me. “Yeah. I do.”
The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I find myself telling him more than I planned.
“I’ve always loved cooking. It’s… therapy for me. An outlet. Back home I used to cook for everyone. I even took some onlineculinary courses. For a while I dreamed about opening my own restaurant one day.”
He listens quietly, watching me with that intense focus that makes my skin feel too tight. “So why didn’t you?”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “It felt like a pipe dream. In our world, daughters don’t usually get to chase things like that.”
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t dismiss it. Instead, he says, “It’s not a pipe dream. If that’s what you want to do, you can.”
I stare at him, shocked. Most men in our world would have laughed or told me to be realistic. But Maxim… he doesn’t. He just looks at me like he means it.
I don't bother asking him what he means by that. We have the rest of the dessert in silence. When we finish eating, he surprises me again by helping clear the table.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I know.” He stacks the plates without looking at me. “Leave the dishes. The staff will handle them in the morning.”
We head upstairs in silence. I’m painfully aware of Maxim walking a few steps behind me. Even without turning around, I can feel his eyes on my back.
As I open my bedroom door, a low rumble of thunder rolls in the distance. The wind picks up, rattling the windows.
I freeze, staring out into the darkening sky. Another flash of lightning cuts through the night, followed by a louder crack of thunder.
Then the power goes out. The hallway plunges into complete darkness.
I hate the dark. Ihatestorms.
A memory rushes in before I can stop it, my father drunk and raging on a rainy night, the power flickering out, him dragging me and Milana into a dark room and locking the door.
The sound of his belt. The he screamed at us while rain pounded against the windows. The terror of not knowing when the next blow would come.
Every time my father would go into those rages, I’d press Milana behind me, trying to shield her with my body, whispering that it would be over soon, even when I didn’t believe it.
“Calina?” Maxim’s voice is low behind me. “Are you alright?”
I realize I’ve been standing frozen in front of my door, not moving. My chest is tight, breathing shallow. Before I can think better of it, the words tumble out.
“I don’t like the dark,” I whisper. “I… I hate storms.”
I expect him to laugh. To mock me. To call me weak.
Instead, when I turn, there’s real concern on his face, visible even in the dim emergency lighting that just kicked in.
