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I swallow hard and do my best to look composed as he stops in front of me, Ruslan at his side.
“You look beautiful, Alinyonok,” my husband says softly, his eyes gleaming, and though I’ve heard a version of this compliment a million times before from all sorts of people, a peculiar warmth invades my chest—the same sensation I experienced this morning in his presence.
It’s a warmth that’s both entwined with and separate from the heated tension that fills my core as he leans in and brushes a proprietary kiss over my lips.
“I take it you’re feeling better,” Ruslan says dryly when Alexei straightens, and I blink, finally fully registering his presence.
“Yes, much better,” I say, managing a cool smile in his direction. “Thanks.”
He flashes back a sharp, white grin. “Relieved to hear that. Now can we eat, please? I’m starving.”
Without waiting for a reply, he heads over to the table under the overhang, and Alexei and I follow. As we walk, Alexei places his palm on the small of my back, sending a warm tingle down my spine that I do my best to ignore.
As soon as we’re seated, Vika appears with a cart laden with all manner of dishes. I go for my usual buckwheat kasha with fruit, while the men pile their plates high with lobster omelet, shrimp, and grilled vegetables. I wrinkle my nose, watching them. Such rich, savory food so early—despite my hunger, the mere thought of it turns my stomach.
“What’s the matter?” Alexei asks, his dark eyes instantly homing in on me. It’s like he has a sixth sense where I’m concerned.
“Nothing,” I say, putting down my spoon. “Just feeling a tiny bit nauseated, that’s all. Probably the side effect of yesterday’s meds.”
“Could be,” Alexei says. “Next time, we’ll try Vika’s needles first. Or better yet, Vika can work with you prophylactically, try to prevent the headaches altogether.”
He resumes eating, and so do I, trying my best not to breathe in the pungent aroma of the eggs and the seafood. It’s making my mouth water, and not in a good way.
“So, how is Slava?” Ruslan asks, and I look up at him, blinking in confusion until I remember that he is also the child’s uncle, same as Alexei.
It’s still strange to me that Alexei and I are equally related to Nikolai’s son—and so is Ruslan.
“He’s good,” I say cautiously, reaching for a glass of orange juice. I can’t imagine Ruslan is happy with my family for abducting his nephew—even though Nikolai, as Slava’s father, had every right to do so. “He’s growing. Learning English.”
“Alexei said he’s gotten really attached to your brother and his new wife,” Ruslan says. “Did he ever talk about us? Does he miss us?”
I glance at Alexei, who’s watching me intently. He must want to know the answer to that as well.
“He… didn’t talk much for a while,” I admit. “I think between his mother’s death and getting to know us, it was a lot to process for a child that young.” I bite my lip, looking from brother to brother. “Were you two close to him?”
“Not as close as we would’ve liked,” Alexei says. “After Ksenia got pregnant, she moved to Krasnodar to live with our mother’s sister. We barely saw her and Slava except on major holidays.” His lips press together. “Now I’m realizing that was probably because she was afraid that if we spent more time with her son, we’d figure out who Slava’s father was.”
“You didn’t suspect my family at all?” I ask, and Ruslan shakes his head.
“In hindsight, Slava’s resemblance to your brothers should’ve clued us in to his paternity, but neither of us was even thinking in that direction,” he says with a grimace. “As far as we knew, Ksenia had never met any Molotovs. When she fell pregnant, she said it was from a one-night stand, and she didn’t want us to pursue it as she had no interest in being with the guy—so we let it be.”
“A mistake, as I told you,” Alexei says grimly. “If we’d pressed harder, or at least run a DNA test—”
“We respected our sister’s wishes,” Ruslan snaps. “As a family should.”
The two men glare at each other. Apparently, I’ve inadvertently stirred up an old argument. I should probably back away, change the topic, but something reckless propels me forward.
“What about your father?” I ask. “Did he get on well with Slava?”
I’m looking at Alexei as I ask the question, so I see it when his whole body stiffens, his face emptying of any and all expression.
“He hardly knew the boy,” Ruslan says flatly, and when I shift my gaze to him, he’s wearing the same telling lack of expression as his brother. “At least they didn’t spend much time together before Ksenia died.”
I take a sip of my orange juice to buy myself a moment to process all this. There’s so much I don’t know about my husband and his family, and what I do know isn’t good. I’ve grown up with ruthless men, but Boris Leonov, Alexei and Ruslan’s father, is rumored to be in a class of his own. I’ve heard whispers of everything from assassinations of entire families to gruesome torture of his enemies—and if that’s being openly whispered about in our circles, it’s barely the tip of the iceberg.
