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She lifted her eyebrows. “The Lion making eggs?”
“Even lions have to eat.” He hesitated. “Your father is the one who gave me that nickname, you know.”
“Yes, the day you defended me on the lawn.” The old anger rose inside her. Anger at the limitations placed on her in the bratva because of her gender. Anger that she’d been treated like glass for so long everyone assumed she was fragile. Good. Anger was useful for her goals. “Maybe if you’d let me defend myself — if I’d been allowed to defend myself — they would have called me the Lion.”
He set down the spatula and looked into her eyes. “Or maybe you would have been hurt.”
She held his gaze. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
He picked up the spatula and flipped the eggs over to make the omelette. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll call you the Lion.”
“Now you’re just being patronizing,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not at all. The name means nothing to me. I am who I am, with or without it.” He cut the omelette in half and slid the pieces onto two plates. “Let’s eat.”
He carried the two plates to the dining room table that stood between the living area and the kitchen. She picked up the salad bowl and brought it with her while he returned to the kitchen for two wine glasses and a bottle of cabernet.
He’d placed the two plates next to each other, and she took the seat to the right of the one at the head of the table, wishing he’d placed them at opposite ends.
He sat next to her and lifted his glass. “To lake houses and late night omelettes.”
“To lions who can cook,” she said.
He laughed and her toes practically curled at the sound of it. It was deep and throaty, almost subversive.
A late night laugh.
A tousled sheets laugh.
She picked up her fork and focused on the food, which was surprisingly delicious. The Lion really could cook, and she wondered what other secrets he was hiding. She was somehow sure there were plenty of them.
The house was silent except for the crackling of the fire, and she was all too aware that they were truly alone for the first time since they’d been married. It shouldn’t have mattered. Rurick and Zoya were both scarce when Lyonya and Kira were about the apartment.
But Kira had known they were there, had known she and Lyonya weren’t alone.
Now they ate in a silence that was anything but comfortable, the air thick with tension that had nothing to do with their verbal sparring in the kitchen. He was like a thunder cloud next to her, his presence dark and heavy, loaded with electricity she could feel building under his stony facade.
Then again, maybe the electricity belonged to her. She could almost feel her nerve endings unfurling, reaching for him like traitorous vines, thirsty for water.
His knee bumped hers under the table and she quickly moved her leg away, feeling as if she’d been burned. She was having trouble breathing, the air moving too shallowly through her lungs, as if she’d been running.
She needed to get out of here. Needed to put distance between herself and her husband. Her husband, who wore jeans and stood in bare feet while he cooked her a late night omelette. Her husband, who was beginning to feel less like a tool for her to use and more like a flesh and blood man.
She pushed back from the table so fast that Lyonya looked up, a startled expression on his face.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“I… I’m tired. I need to go to bed,” she said, picking up her plate.
He stood and wiped his mouth on his napkin, then reached for her plate. “Let me.”
His voice was hoarse, and she had to resist the urge to push back the lock of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead.
They both held the plate, their eyes locked.
“Thank you,” Kira finally managed to say, letting go of the plate. “Goodnight.”
She started for the stairs.
