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That got Stas’s attention. He looked over at me, not saying anything. He just watched me with that unnervingly thoughtful expression, gray eyes sharp even in the dimming light.

“What?” I brushed nonexistent lint off my shirt.

He tilted his head. “How old are you?”

I barked a laugh. “Wow. Touching. After all we’ve been through, you don’t even know my age? I’m wounded, Zhukovsky. Truly.”

His stare didn’t waver. “How old?”

“Thirty-three.” I raised a brow. “Why?”

He only shook his head and leaned over the roof’s edge. “We’ll be down in five,” he called to Zasha. “Just have one section left.”

“All right.” Zasha waved and turned back toward the house.

When the door closed behind him, silence settled again as we quickly worked to finish the section we were working on. My stomach grumbled when, finally, I crouched to pack up the reel. I was hungrier than I’d thought.

“You go down first,” I said, since he was closer to the ladder anyway. “Just don’t steal the ladder after.”

“Only you play those childish games.” Stas inched his way over to the ladder. “And for your information, poison’s a coward’s way of killing someone. It’s not my cooking you have to worry about.”

A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Good to know,” I murmured, glancing over my shoulder at him. “I prefer my enemies upfront. Makes dinner conversation more interesting.”

“Will you at least tone it down in front of the kids?”

“They’re hardly kids.” I blew out an exasperated breath. “If I can’t spar words with you, one of two things will happen. Either I put my knife inside you or my cock because only those two things calm me the fuck down. I’m game with either, but are you?”

Stas didn’t look up. He braced a hand on the ladder like nothing I said could offend him anymore.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Yuriy, but I don’t think you have what it takes to do either to me.”

For a beat, my brain just—frizzed.

Static. Sparks. Everything short-circuited.

Was that a challenge?

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out except a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh.

“Wait—what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I called after him.

Stas was already moving, boots thudding against the ladder as he climbed down, unhurried. He didn’t glance back once. Just stepped off like he hadn’t dropped a live grenade between us, brushed his palms together, and started for the porch.

“Hey!” I shouted, the heat rushing back into my chest. “Is that a challenge, Zhukovsky?”

No answer.

The bastard just kept walking, shoulders loose, every line of him screaming he couldn’t care less, which, somehow, made me care a whole lot more.

5

STAS

The pub smelled of beer, fried food, and bad decisions, precisely the kind of place I should never share with Yuriy Orlov. Add alcohol to him, and you might as well hand the devil a lighter.

Throughout dinner, he’d kept up a steady stream of chatter with his brother as he entertained us with stories about their past. Most of his tales were of Zasha as a child. I’d known he’d raised Zasha, but never expected him to be that young when he took over the responsibility of his brother.