Chapter 12 #2
That’s the man who locked me in my room last night. The man who spanked me and threatened me. The man I’ve argued with at every turn because I fucking hate him.
Now he’s sitting here, teaching my brother checkers, and acting like he actually cares?
Did I wake up in an alternate reality, or what?
I don’t trust it. I don’t trust him. But my stomach growls, and I’m in desperate need of a good cup of coffee, so I push through and decide I’m going to take things as they come.
I have to walk closer to Semyon to get to the coffee. I square my shoulders and try not to think about the fact that I’m naked under this robe.
As I draw closer to him, I remember the way he touched me. His low, masculine hum of need. The way it felt having him close and knowing, deep down in my bones, how badly he wanted me.
My body heats. I glance at him, hoping he’ll stay focused on the game, but no such luck. His eyes are raking over me in my bathrobe as if mentally undressing me.
Heat skates across my skin.
When I was younger, I’d have given anything in the world for him to look at me like this. But now?
Now, I don’t know how I feel about it.
I stand at the kitchen counter and look at the coffee machine in front of me. I've never seen anything like it. It looks like some kind of spaceship—one pull of the bells and whistles, and I might launch myself straight into the atmosphere.
I turn to see Semyon watching me.
“You drink coffee?” he asks.
“Yes, I love coffee.”
“But you don’t know how to use that.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m kind of old-fashioned. I use, like, a French press. That’s my favorite way.”
Of course, it makes sense that he would have this type of contraption—immaculate, precise, and unnecessarily excellent.
“I’ll be right back,” he says to Stefan. “You stay right there. This game isn’t over.” There’s a small, playful edge to his voice, but it’s still laced with command.
Stefan sits still, taking a huge bite of his pastry. Crumbs spray onto the table and he gives me a grin around a mouthful.
I don’t remember the last time my brother grinned.
I face the coffee machine, telling myself I can do hard things. I can figure this out.
Before I get the chance, Semyon reaches over. “You use these pods here,” he says.
He’s standing behind me. I can feel the heat of his chest pressed up against my back, and god, he smells so good. I close my eyes as heat floods my chest. We’re so close. Just the feel of his warmth next to me and his scent is driving me mad…
“See?” he says, his voice low and almost seductive. Or am I imagining that? “The brown ones are espresso, and the black are coffee. You put them in here and press this button.”
“Do I have to, like, tell it what size cup I want or…?”
“No. Each one is calibrated for the exact amount with the right pressure. Espresso shots will be smaller, coffee larger. How do you take your coffee?”
“Cream, milk, whatever.”
“Not ‘whatever,’” he says, reaching for a crystal-clear mug and sliding it under the coffee machine. “I asked you what you like, not what you’ll tolerate.”
My heart thumps.
“Cream. I like cream and three sugars. How do you like yours?” I ask because it feels like the polite thing to do.
His lips almost twitch. Almost. “Cream, three sugars.”
Is he mocking me? I narrow my eyes at him, but he only shrugs.
“I don’t lie, Anya.”
I don’t think he could if he tried.
I watch as the machine bubbles and clanks, the fragrant smell of coffee filling the air. He takes the finished cup, pours in cream and three sugars, gives it a stir, and holds it between his hands, staring into it before handing it to me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, half wondering if I’m thanking him only for the coffee.
With a nod, he makes another cup for himself, and Stefan asks for tea. He likes to pretend he’s grown-up, but he’s not quite ready for coffee yet.
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
I flick the button on the electric kettle and watch as Semyon cleans everything with precision.
The pods go into a labeled recycling bucket.
He takes a cloth from the sink, wipes a few droplets of coffee off the counter, folds the cloth neatly, and puts it back.
He returns the cream to the fridge—immaculate, perfectly arranged, of course—and slides the sugar container back into its exact spot next to the milk.
I watch, half mesmerized, trying not to think about what has to happen between us.
How could someone so beautiful be so cold?
Will it be like having sex with one of those vampires?
Oh my god. Sex. I can’t think of that. I need to talk to Ophelia.
Now.
I swallow hard as the kettle bubbles and steam hisses behind me. It’s ready. “Here, let me have your cup.”
I place a teabag in Stefan’s mug and pour the steaming water. But I’m not focused, and the mug slips, the boiling water splashing over my hand.
“Shit!” I yelp, jerking back and cradling my hand. I run to the sink, turning on the cold water, hissing as the burn stings. Before I can grab a towel or think straight, Semyon is there, right in my space.
“Let me see,” he says briskly, his voice low.
“It’s fine.” I clutch my wrist tighter.
“Anya.” His voice has that edge again—quiet, unrelenting. Not a question but a command.
I hold out my hand, trembling. I don’t want him to touch me again, but I can’t stop him. His large, calloused fingers take my wrist with surprising gentleness, turning it over to inspect the red, angry skin.
“You shouldn’t be so careless,” he scolds, his eyes focused on the burn as he guides my hand under the cold water.
“Thanks for the advice,” I snap, sarcasm lacing my shaky voice because it fucking hurts. But it comes out weaker than I intended.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he grabs a clean dishcloth, wets it under cold water, and presses it against my wrist. I hiss at the contact, but his grip doesn’t waver.
“You’ll blister if you don’t cool it down quickly,” he says, his voice rougher now.
I glance at him, caught off guard by the tight line of his jaw and the way his brows draw together. He avoids my gaze, focusing entirely on my injury, but the tension in his shoulders betrays something else.
Semyon isn’t cold right now. He’s not happy but not furious. He isn’t detached either. He’s just… there. Solid. Present.
Something inside me breaks then. It’s been so damn long since I’ve had another adult I could lean on other than Ophelia.
My breath hitches as his thumb brushes against the inside of my wrist—a faint touch, but it sends heat racing up my arm that has nothing to do with the burn. I hate myself for melting under his gentleness.
“There’s a first aid kit in the pantry,” he says, breaking the moment as he turns away. “I’ll get it. Keep that cloth against your skin.”
When he returns, he unfolds a perfectly organized kit, takes out a small packet of burn relief cream, and murmurs, “Let me see.”
He stands in front of me, masculine, strong, so in charge.
I show him my wrist and flinch when he smears cream on it before he takes out gauze and carefully wraps it.
“Leave it like this until I tell you to take it off.”
For a moment, I just nod. I don’t want to argue with him.
“Anya? Are you okay?” Stefan asks from across the room.
“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “You need to be careful with hot things.”
Semyon grumbles under his breath but goes back to the table. I watch him and wish I could bring him back.
Stefan moves a checker piece and hops over one of Semyon’s. “I’m gonna beat you,” he says with a grin.
Semyon rolls his eyes. “I’d like to see you try.” On the next move, he jumps four of Stefan’s pieces and collects them in his hand.
Stefan’s face falls.
I take my coffee and a plate of pastries and walk over to them, rolling my eyes. “Oh yes, Semyon Kopolov, the ultimate checkers tyrant. Crushing the dreams of children one king at a time.”
The remark slips out before I can stop myself, but to my shock, Semyon laughs.
It’s soft, barely audible, but it’s there—a quiet chuckle that rumbles from his chest. His lips curve into a genuine smile.
I freeze, my cup halfway to my lips.
I thought he’d forgotten how to laugh. He looks… different. The sharp lines of his face soften, the cold mask momentarily slipping aside.
For one moment, I see the boy I grew up with. The boy I loved. The boy who broke my heart.
And for a reason I can’t explain, I want to see it again.
The thought hits me like a punch to the stomach. What is wrong with me?
I bury my face in the coffee, trying to get a grip on myself. I still have such vivid memories. I wonder if he does too.
“You should always make sure you watch your opponent,” Semyon says to Stefan.
I've almost forgotten that he's the second eldest in his family, with two younger sisters now.
He takes to this role kind of naturally, and I love that.
But I can't forget who he is or what he wants.
Right now, my brother is safe, and I made the decision I had to, to keep my family together. I suppose… so did he.
I take a bite of pastry and drink the coffee. "My god, this coffee is delicious.”
“It’s a high-quality brew. Ethiopian beans.”
“Well, I'll have to introduce you to the French press," I tell him. "You know our most popular recipes at the bakery are always the simplest."
Why am I telling him this? Like he cares?
"I know. We have a spreadsheet we’ll go over later when we discuss it with your new business manager.”
I blink at him in surprise.
"What do you mean?”
“I want to build a detailed catalog,” Semyon says, his voice steady but focused. “Inventory, profit margins, the items that generate the most revenue.”
I blink, momentarily caught off guard. He’s actually talking about the bakery’s operations? I thought he only cared about the location, just another strategic asset to him. But he’s talking about profit margins like he’s genuinely… invested.
His gaze shifts to the coffee in his hand. “If you know which item drives the most profit, you can optimize production and reduce waste. The right adjustments could increase revenue by at least thirty percent.”