Page 27 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

“No,” he agrees. “But ask anyway.”

I keep my focus on the knife, chopping rhythmically. “Did you always want this? The lifestyle, and everything?”

“It’s not like I had a lot of choice about the life, after all; it’s something we’re born into,” he says, his jaw tightening slightly. “But the network—the data, the leverage—what I’ve been building on the side. That was a choice.”

“What would you think you’d have done? If you’d been born into a normal family, a normal life?”

He considers it seriously, rather than giving a fast, flippant answer. “I don’t know. Something that required patience. Something where what you built actually lasted.” He glances down at me. “An architect or something, maybe? What about you? What did you want to be when you were growing up?”

I look back at the board. Here it is. The one secret I have never told a single soul, because in our world, what’s the point of even wishing for it?

“A daycare,” I tell him, the admission almost lost over the sound of the blade hitting wood. “I wanted to run a daycare.”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t laugh, which I had secretly braced myself for.

“I love kids; they’re so funny and honest. I’ve always been good with them. It’s...” I pause, the knife freezing for a split second before I force it to move again. “What happens to the children in my care if something goes wrong because of who my family is? You can’t put innocent kids in the crosshairs of this thing we exist in. It’s too dangerous.” I shrug, trying to sound casual. “But I have my nieces and nephews. It’s enough.”

For several years, not being able to do the thing I really wanted was like a gaping wound. I felt angry and bitter about the constraints of having the type of family I did, but it’s not something I grieve anymore. It is what it is. I keep my eyes glued to the vegetables because the silence stretching between us feels heavy. I know that if I look up and meet his eyes right now, it will probably tip me over whatever edge this is I’m balancing on. And then, because I’m distracted thinking about him, the knife slips.

The blade catches my index finger. It’s deep enough to split the skin, causing a sharp gasp to escape my throat before I can stop it. My brain hasn’t even processed the pain, but Yakov has dropped his knife, gripped my wrist, and popped my bleeding finger inside his mouth before I’ve even blinked.

My entire world slams to a halt.

The heat of his mouth against my skin sends a shockwave straight down my spine. I can feel the movement of his tongue, sucking gently to stall the bleeding, his dark brows furrowed in concentration. He removes my finger from his lips slowly, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. His grip around my wrist remains possessively tight. He looks down at the neat red line on my skin, tracking the rising blood with a terrifyingly sharp intensity.

“We wouldn’t want you bleeding all over dinner,” he murmurs, holding me captive with nothing but his stare, watching me look at him.

I can feel my heart pulsing in my ears. The cut on my finger throbs in time with it, as he traces a slow arc against the inside of my wrist with his thumb where my pulse hammers hardest. What the fuck is happening to me right now? It’s like some weird sensory overload that’s making my brain go haywire.

“Yakov,” I whisper, and I don’t know what I’m asking for. I have no idea if I want him to let go or pull me closer.

He blinks slowly, like he’s surfacing from deep water, then releases my wrist. He turns to the cabinet above the sink, reaching for the first aid kit. “Sit,” he says.

“It’s okay, I can do it myself.”

“I know.” He opens the kit, finds antiseptic and a bandage, and turns back to me. “Let me anyway.”

He picks me up like I weigh nothing and sits me on the countertop, my legs dangling, and I feel weirdly young and exposed in a way I haven’t since I was a girl. He steps between my knees, close enough that I can smell the soap on his skin and the faint trace of the cologne he wears. He takes my hand again, gently this time, and cleans the cut. “The daycare.” he says, “you never told anyone that?”

“No.”

“Why me?”

Because I’m terrified of this whole situation, and where it’s going to end up, and still I trust you anyway. I have no clue how those two things can exist in the same space, but they do.

“Because you’re here,” I say instead, and it comes out sounding like an accusation and a confession all at once.

He finishes the bandage, pressing the adhesive strip into place gently. But he doesn’t step back; his palms flatten against the counter on either side of my hips, caging me without touching me, and he bows his head until his forehead nearly rests against mine.

“I am here,” he says, and his breath ghosts across my lips. “Whether that’s a comfort or a threat to you, Raya, I am here.”

I should push him away. I should slide off this counter and put three feet of kitchen between us and remember who we are and what this can never be. We’d never even met before any of this happened. A few weeks ago, he was a name I associated with danger, not a man who knows how I take my coffee. All this is a legal document. We’re from two opposing families who want each other dead, for crying out loud. Even if he isn’t the same as the rest of them. Even if he does make me feel safe. It can’t be. Can it?

I don’t move.

“Both,” I whisper. “It’s both.”

He makes a low sound, and for one endless second I think he’s going to close the distance. I can feel the heat radiating from him, the barely leashed thing that lives under his careful control. My lips part. My eyes flutter shut.