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“Can you do one fucking thing without almost dying?” He drops the helmet on the back of the bike and faces me again. His brows are pinched together. I hate that it makes him even more handsome.
The arch of his brows should be studied by scientists. I want to ask him if he gets them waxed. I know women who would die for that brow shape.
“What?” I want him to explain himself, but I also want to make sure I didn’t fall too deep into his gaze and miss something.
“It’s called survival instinct. Try it sometime.”
I blink at him, genuinely confused. Timofey is an asshole, but usually, there’s a reason. Me slipping off of his motorcycle seems like a pretty flimsy excuse for this much anger, even for his short temper.
Usually, I’d match his tone and start an argument. But that wouldn’t serve my long-term goal. Instead, I swallow down every defense I want to make and nod.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
His brows pinch even harder together. “You’re here to make my life easier. If I have to spend all my time saving you from calamity, you won’t be worth the trouble.”
“That makes sense,” I say softly. “I’ll try to be more careful.”
I can feel his frustration boiling over. The fact that I’m agreeing with him should make him happy. I’m obeying. Isn’t this what he wanted?
For some reason, Timofey is looking for a fight. He wants me to push back.
And I have no earthly idea why.
Without another word, he turns around and stomps up the stairs. I follow at a distance, keeping my hands folded in front of me.
Walking back into the house is a relief I didn’t expect. Showing up to work this morning, I felt like I was walking to my own execution. After being in the cell for a couple hours, though, I’m thrilled to be back in the mansion.
Again, that was probably Timofey’s plan.
I hate that it’s working.
26
PIPER
He cuts through the entrance hall and across the hall towards the back of the house. I’m about to stop and wait for direction when I smell something delicious.
My stomach lurches. I haven’t eaten since I had a granola bar this morning, so I’m starved.
I jog to catch up to Timofey just as he walks into the kitchen.
The room is spacious with a large island in the center. The black wooden cabinets are modern and flush, no ornamentation except for a carved-out groove to act as a handle. Clear glass orbs float down from the ceiling and radiate warm light.
I can’t focus much on the interior design, though, because a tall, thin man is dancing across the tile.
He’s wearing a bright red apron and clacking a pair of tongs in the air like a flamenco castanet. I don’t hear any music, but that doesn’t seem to bother the man. He sways his hips to a silent Latin beat and shakes the tongs every few seconds. I swear I hear him sing-song, “Cha-cha-cha!”
Timofey releases a weary, bone-deep sigh and the man spins around.
Rather than embarrassment, a huge, goofy smile spreads across his face. “Hola, amiga! Welcome back. Did they feed you in the brink or are you hungry?”
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me, in what appears to be a horrendous Spanish accent.
“Oh… No, they didn’t. I’m—” I glance at Timofey, but his face is an indecipherable mask of annoyance. I’m not sure if it’s aimed at me, this man, or the both of us. I smile back at the cook. “I’m starving, actually.”
He clacks the tongs together again like his own applause machine. “Fantastico! Lunch is almost ready. I’m making teriyaki chicken power bowls.”
My stomach growls at the name alone. “That sounds incredible.”
