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“Can I help?” It’s the least I can do, seeing as she’s letting me stay here.
However, she points her spoon toward the table, hinting I’m to sit. The steaming pot of coffee has me happily complying.
“Coffee?” I ask her, raising a mug in case she doesn’t understand me. She shakes her head.
Pouring myself a cup, I can’t shake the feeling Larisa hates my guts. Even though she hasn’t spoken a single word to me, her body language has pretty much flipped me off since the moment we met. I know it’s because of what I did to Zoey.
She turned up black and blue, and no doubt, she told Larisa the reason. She has every right to be mad at me because it’s clear she’s fond of her. Here, I am the outsider, but haven’t I always been?
I sip my coffee in silence, but the peace doesn’t bother me. It’s actually quite nice to sit and gather my thoughts. That is soon shattered when Zoey ruins the calm.
She speaks to Larisa in Russian but ignores me, of course. I’m surprised she doesn’t throw the hot coffee in my face after she pours herself a cup. Her bruises are hideous, and I avert my gaze, ashamed I lost my temper.
She may be a lying, insensitive asshole, but I shouldn’t have attacked her the way that I did. I stooped to her level by behaving that way.
Alek and Ingrid enter together, and I don’t miss Zoey’s glower. Alek addresses Larisa, who barks a response. Maybe she just hates everyone.
When Alek sees me at the table, he smiles, and I hate that it seems genuine when I’m still angry with him. Ingrid stands behind Alek, which only enrages Zoey all the more. All in all, the tension can be cut with a knife and seeing as there are many pointy implements within reach, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone took that metaphor literally.
Sara and Max are next to enter and seeing Sara has me standing, wanting to give my friend a hug. “Hi,” I say as we embrace warmly. We haven’t had a chance to talk.
Once we break apart, I decide to stay standing as the room is suddenly crowded.
Pavel enters through the back door with a basket full of eggs. Sharing breakfast with everyone is as ridiculous as it sounds, and if I wasn’t so hungry, I would skip it altogether and stick with coffee. But having no idea what the day holds, I decide to face it with a full stomach.
Pavel kisses his mom on the cheek as he places the eggs on the counter. The sight warms me because I never had this affection with my mom. Although I don’t agree with him working with Alek, I understand it because it’s clear his family is very important to him.
Larisa says something in Russian that has everyone grabbing a plate. When Sara notices that I’m lost in translation, she clarifies, “She said breakfast is ready.”
“Thanks, Sara,” I say, accepting the plate she offers me. “I haven’t had a chance to speak to you since we’ve been back. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I understand. How’s Saint?”
Instantly, I cast my eyes downward.
“He’ll be okay.” I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but honestly, no one knows that. The fact he won’t speak to me about anything has me wondering if maybe he blames me for everything. Iamthe reason he was tortured and abused. He has every right to hate me. I hate me too.
Sighing, my appetite soon disappears as the thought of eating anything turns my stomach.
I’m about to leave everyone to their breakfast as the chewing and slurping are already grating at my raw nerves, but when the back door opens and in jogs a sweaty, breathless Saint, I forget everything. He eclipses the sun, the moon, the entire fucking planet.
His damp hair is tied back, but a few stray strands have escaped, framing his hard, chiseled face. He’s in sweats and a tight white T-shirt that clings to his hardened body. It’s apparent he’s just gone for a run. When he locks eyes with me, I smile, unapologetic he caught me staring.
His lips twitch into a half smile in response. It’s progress.
He ignores everyone and helps himself to a glass of water. After gulping it down, he refills the glass and has another drink. His back is turned as he is clearly not interested in playing happy family. Someone who does, however, is Zoey.
She sheepishly walks over to where he stands. “Hey, Saint.” She touches his arm but pulls it away quickly when he hisses and recoils about three feet.
He doesn’t like to be touched, and I don’t blame him. After everything he endured, I can only imagine what memories the touch of another evokes.
He inhales sharply before his composure returns. “Hey,” he finally replies, finishing his water.
I watch closely, unsure what is about to transpire.
“How are you?” She is testing the waters as she too doesn’t know how to handle her brother.
“Fine,” he replies curtly.
