Page 35 of Anton

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I agreed to this.

It’s late. She should be home, far away from me, not standing in my foyer and studying a house with nothing worth seeing.

The place is large, but she grew up in one just as grand, so none of it should impress her. Beyond the size, there’s little here. A framed photo of Volchok hangs on the wall, and a vase sits on the table because Kirill’s housekeeper insisted the room needed more character.

This is my character: dark and empty. It suits me just fine, whether Thora approves of it or not.

“You have a nice home.” She tucks her hair behind her ear.

Her cheeks are still a little flushed, that scrap of fabric she calls a dress doing nothing to hide the curves of her body. Maybe I should get her a sweater. It is a bit cold in here.

My gaze drags over her bare legs instead while I wonder what they’d feel like wrapped around me.

Would I like it? Would she?

“Do you want water or something?” I ask instead.

She nods. “Sure. That would be great.”

“Come.”

Just as I say that, Volchok charges down the stairs. Probably heard her voice from the comfort of my bed.

Her entire face brightens as she drops to her knees. He barrels into her, knocking her onto her ass, but she only laughs while he covers her face in licks and she scratches behind his ears. Then he rolls onto his back like a blyatski submissive, and she rubs his belly.

“What a good boy you are. Did you miss me? Because I missed you.”

He barks once, making her giggle.

My God, what is happening? Maybe I should give her the dog. He likes her more anyway.

“Hvatit,” I tell him, but he pretends I don’t exist.

Okay, I’ll remember that the next time you want a treat.

Once they’ve had enough of each other, Volchok looks between us, his tail still wagging.

“He’s the sweetest.” She gives him one last scratch behind the ears, and I huff out a breath.

“Yeah. Sweet. That’s him.” I gesture toward the stairs. “Volchok, upstairs.”

I walk toward the kitchen while my dog actually obeys, trotting back up the stairs as Thora falls into step beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin. She looks up at me—quiet, almost shy—and I grind my jaw, hating the effect she has on me.

She’s the enemy’s daughter. Nothing more.

Then why did you bring her here?

I ignore the question. It’s easier than admitting I don’t have an answer.

Opening the refrigerator, I find it as bare as always. Water bottles take up most of the space, with a prepackaged meal that I don’t remember buying shoved in the back.

She leans in to examine the contents, her brows pulling in when she returns her attention to me. “Do you not have a cook?”

“No.” I grab a water bottle and shut the door.

“So no one’s making you real food?” Concern flanks her tone, and it irritates me.

“No. I eat at my brothers’ places or pick something up.” I twist off the cap. “Why? Are you planning to come over and cook for me?”