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Exhaling a frustrated breath, I sit and open my inbox again. It’s too soon to expect anything from Konstantin—I only asked him to do a deep dive on Chloe’s missing month this morning—but I still check for his email.
Nothing.
Fucking hell. I really need a distraction. My fingers are itching to open up the camera feed again and watch her interact with my son. But if I do, this restlessness will only grow worse, my hunger for her more intense. Having held her this morning, I know how she feels pressed against me, how sweet and clean she smells, like wildflowers on a crisp spring morning. It took all of my strength to turn her loose, even with Alina there, and when I found her alone in the laundry room, every dark, primal instinct insisted that I take her, that I strip her naked and bend her over a washer, claiming her on the spot.
And I would’ve done exactly that if she’d leaned toward me.
If she’d done anything but back away, I’d be balls deep inside her instead of sitting here, wrestling with myself like a fool.
No, fuck this.
I launch to my feet.
I need a hard, bloody fight, and since Pavel’s unavailable, the guards will have to do.
* * *
Arkash and Burev are out patrolling the compound when I get to the guards’ bunker, but Ivanko, Kirilov, and Gurenko are sitting around a campfire out front with a few of our American hires. Like the barbarians they are, they’re roasting a whole deer on a spit and trading their usual insults.
Ivanko spots me first. “Boss.” Snatching up his M16, he jumps to his feet. “Something wrong?”
Kirilov and Gurenko are already on their feet as well, weapons ready, just like in our Crimea days.
“Easy, boys.” Smiling grimly, I strip off my shirt and drape it over a nearby tree branch. “Everything’s just right.” Or it will be soon.
Three against one is exactly the type of odds I was hoping for.
18
Chloe
To my relief, lunch with the Molotovs is a much more casual affair than dinner. Well, Alina is still dressed like she’s at an upscale cocktail party, but Nikolai is wearing dark jeans with a white polo shirt, and nobody chides Slava for his shorts and T-shirt as we sit down at the table—which is again laden with all sorts of mouthwatering salads, cold cuts, and sides.
Do all Russians eat like czars, or just this family? If this is an every-meal thing, I have no idea how they’re not fat. I’m still full, having had breakfast only a couple of hours ago, but there’s no way I’m not going to gorge myself on this spread.
Everything looks so freaking good.
“How was your first night with us, Chloe?” Alina asks when we’ve all filled our plates. “Did you sleep well?”
I smile at her, relieved both by the innocuous question and the friendly tone. I was afraid she might still be mad at me after this morning’s incident. “I slept very well, thank you.” And it’s true—the nightmare aside, it was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.
“That’s good,” Alina says, cutting into what looks like a fancy deviled egg. “I thought I heard something from your room around three, but it must’ve been my brother returning from one of his middle-of-the-night runs.” She shoots Nikolai a sidelong glance, and I busy myself with the food on my plate, grateful for the explanation.
I must’ve screamed out loud last night. That, or Alina heard me fall out of bed.
“I did go for a run,” Nikolai says, “so that must’ve been it.” When I look up, however, his gaze is trained on me, studying me with an unreadable expression.
Does he suspect something?
God, I hope he didn’t hear me scream or fall.
Fighting the urge to squirm in my seat, I lower my gaze—and freeze, staring at his hands. He’s holding a knife in one and a fork in the other, European style, but that’s not what draws my attention.
It’s his knuckles. They’re red and swollen, as if he’s been in a fistfight.
My pulse spikes as I look away, then sneak another look at his hands.
Yep. I didn’t imagine it. Nikolai’s knuckles are a mess. In general, his big, masculine hands look like they’ve seen a lot of action, with calluses on the edges of his thumbs and faded scars in a few places. Even his short, neatly groomed nails can’t hide the truth.
These aren’t the hands of a wealthy playboy. They belong to a man intimately acquainted with either hard manual labor or violence.
The suspicions I’d all but suppressed return, and this time, I can’t pretend they’re baseless. Something about the Molotovs unnerves me. Who are they? Why are they here? I can see a rich foreign family spending a couple of weeks in a place like this as a “nature detox,” but to actually move here? Someone as glamorous as Alina belongs in Paris or Milan or New York, not a corner of Idaho where there are more bears than people. Same goes for Nikolai, with his smooth, cosmopolitan manners and insistence on Downton Abbey attire at dinner.
