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“What’s the dialect?”
“Chechen.”
“So, the Kuznetsovs don’t originate from Central Russia then. Interesting.”
I sniffed. “It’s an endangered dialect. He could have learned it just because so few people speak it.”
“Maybe.” He cleared his throat. “That wasn’t the answer I expected.”
“Thought the CIA programmed it into my brain?”
“That’d have fewer familial repercussions if it were the truth.”
“There’s no denying that,” I admitted. “Do you believe in kismet?”
His hand and arm had started flexing again so, even with my eyes closed, I knew he was texting his family.
“Umm, not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because my brain’s too logical.”
“It’s not totally logical.”
“It is.”
“Is not.”
“It is!”
“It so isn’t. Otherwise, you’d never have let your da control you,” I grumbled.
He stilled a touch. “That made sense, and you know why.”
“I know it was to keep your brothers safe, but that’s also not logical. They’re grown men. They can care for themselves.”
“No, they think they can. They’ve never had to do shit without me around and that makes all the difference.”
“Love isn’t logical,” I reasoned. “You love them.”
“More than life itself,” he agreed.
“That’s not logical,” I repeated.
“No. But that’s why I hesitated. Smart ass. I UMMED. Remember?”
My lips quirked. “Explain, Mr. Logic.”
“Remind me why I got on a plane for you again?” His huff told me he was teasing, but I couldn’t have misinterpreted his words anyway. Not when my feet shuffled around and he clamped his calves around them to keep them in place. “I didn’t believe in things like kismetbefore. I don’t wholly now, but—”
“What changed?”
“I think you already know the answer to that.”
His voice had darkened, deepened. I gently nipped my bottom lip, bobbing my teeth around the soft flesh I’d trapped.
Me.
