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The deep voice startles me, and I drop the block of parmesan cheese into the center of the casserole. Noodles and sauce splash over the side of the dish and onto the white tablecloth.
“Again, with the sneaking,” I say, trying to ignore the stuttering of my heart. Hopefully, over time, I’ll grow accustomed to being in the Volkov mansion, because I don’t think I’ll survive daily scares like this for the rest of my life.
“Again, with the making yourself at home,” Luka snaps, stomping into the dining room and grabbing the spices I used, inspecting them one by one. He changed his clothes. Instead of the black suit he wore for the funeral, he is in a pair of dark gray trousers with a light gray—almost white—sweater and black monk strap shoes. He looks effortlessly stylish. I hate that I notice the cut of his biceps through the thin material as he points sharply to my seat across from him. “Sit down and leave the food alone. I have a cook already.”
“Not a very good one,” I mumble under my breath while reclaiming my seat. If Luka hears me, he doesn’t respond.
Instead, he scoops out another square of lasagna and heaps it onto my plate. “Eat.”
I raise my eyebrows at the large portion in front of me. “First, I’m not allowed to eat at all, and now you are trying to stuff me?”
He folds his hands under his chin, his steepled fingers running through his dark beard. “Eat.”
I feel his gaze on me as I portion off a bite of the newly-seasoned lasagna and put it in my mouth. His eyes narrow as I chew and swallow. The taste is marginally better, though nothing can help the overcooked pasta. When I go for a second bite, Luka finally cuts himself a small square and begins to eat.
It takes me a moment to realize Luka thought I might have poisoned his food. It is why he didn’t want to eat the chicken I’d been making when he came home and why he was upset I was seasoning the chicken. He thinks I might try to kill him. And honestly, considering he’d walked into to see me tampering with the casserole after I’d already cut myself off a square, I can’t blame him. He probably has a good number of people who would like to see him dead. And honestly, part of me is flattered. Luka may not show it, but he is scared of me. It’s why I have my own bedroom.I’m not going to give you the chance to stab me in my sleep.
We eat in silence, but Luka eats one square and then another, and even if he won’t admit it, I know he likes the changes I made. Perhaps, their bland in-house cook is why his father is always eating at The Floating Crown. I’d go out to eat too if I had a chef who couldn’t even cook pasta correctly.
When my wine glass is empty, Luka refills it without a word. And despite my joke about him trying to stuff me, I eat both squares of lasagna, and Luka cuts me another piece as I’m finishing the last bite.
"Thank you," I say quietly when Luka moves another slice of bread on to my plate. I'm full, but I don't want to discourage this uncharacteristic kindness.
His mouth tightens into a line like my voice is grating to him, but he just nods and keeps eating. If he'd deign to smile every so often, he could have any woman he wanted. He certainly wouldn't need to threaten anyone to be with him. Even if his genetics may predispose him to rage and cruelty, they also gave him one hell of a jawline. I don't see many upsides to my situation, but if there is any silver lining, it's that Luka Volkov isn't the worst person to look at every day for the rest of my life.
The rest of my life.
The thought makes me feel hollow. I can’t spend the next fifty years of my life eating dinner in silence and flinching when he walks into the room. I don’t have to like Luka, but I can try to coexist with him. We can try to make the best of what is an undeniably awkward situation.
“And thank you for taking care of so many of the wedding preparations,” I add, pushing the lasagna around my plate. “Planning has never been a strong suit of mine.”
He nods, his jaw working as he chews. “Gabriel told me about your wedding dress.”
“The soldier who was with me all afternoon?”
Luka nods again without looking up.
“I didn’t realize he had such an eye for fashion,” I say. “He had a lot of opinions on my dress selection.”
“Poofy sleeves?” Luka asks, looking up at me from under dark brows. “Did you want our wedding to have an 80s theme? Should I request that the DJ bring a boom box?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and biting my lip. “I wish, but there isn’t enough time for you to grow a mullet.”
Do my eyes deceive me or did Luka’s mouth just curve up in a small smile? Hope sparks in my chest at the sight. It is possible for Luka to be happy. To be friendly, even. We just had a back and forth conversation without any harsh words or commands. It might have even been considered banter. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
I’m still smiling to myself when I look up and see Luka looking at me. His eyes dart away, and he forces his mouth into a flat line, hiding any proof of his goodness.
Just because he is capable of human emotions doesn’t mean he likes them. And it doesn’t mean he’ll be a good husband. Even the devil can smile.
Luka has killed at least two people in cold blood. Probably more. No matter how much I want my years spent in the Volkov mansion to be happy, I can’t let that happen at the expense of my morals. I can’t forget and forgive the horrible things he has done for my own selfish reasons. There is a fine balance between coexisting and accepting what Luka has done, and I will have to work every day to find it without crossing over to his side. Without forgetting how heartless he and his entire family are.
And what they’ve done to me.
11
Luka
Finding Eve cooking in my kitchen didn’t make me angry. It didn’t scare me or unsettle me. It was… nice. Which was the most unsettling thing of all.
