Chapter 25
Alexei
Aurora floats through my kitchen like she belongs here with the gleaming appliances and countertops. Light streams through the wall of windows, burnishing her brown tresses into copper and gold. I should be reviewing security footage, checking inventory reports, and making calls.
Yet my laptop sits next to me on the couch, forgotten.
Instead, I watch her.
The borrowed sweatpants ride low on her hips, and an oversize t-shirt hangs loose on her frame. My mother’s ring sparkles on her finger. She’s adorned in my belongings, head to toe.
Mine.
She may not realize this yet, but I may never let her go.
She hums under her breath as she cracks eggs against the side of a bowl, scattering fragments of shell across my once immaculate counter. She seems peaceful. Happy, even.
I can’t look away.
The scraping of the spatula sets my teeth on edge. Metal raking nonstick coating. Even I know she’s ruining my cookware.
I fight the urge to cross the distance and show her the proper method. Not that I do much cooking. But I can still fry a damn egg without destroying my pan in the process.
A soft curse chases a gasp. “Don’t worry. Just dropped an egg!”
I cringe. A fucking egg. Splattered across my clean floor. Yellow yolk spreading like a wound over the polished concrete. I grip the arm of the couch, fingers digging into the leather. Pixie scampers out of sight behind the counter.
“Oops, there goes another one.” Aurora laughs, the sound far too bright for the disaster she’s creating. “Don’t worry. Pixie won’t eat it. She doesn’t like eggs.”
“Why would I worry about her eating it?” At least that would leave less mess for me.
“Because raw eggs are bad for kitties, silly.”
Right. How remiss of me not to have memorized the cat section of Merck’s Veterinary Manual when I don’t own a damn cat.
Crumbs and spilled liquids surround a crumpled dishtowel on the counter, but I force myself to remain seated. Even as my hands itch with the urge to clean.
She emerges from the kitchen barefoot and carrying a plate in one hand. Steam rises from the dish, along with the scent of butter and salt and burned egg. I track each sway of her hips, noting the confident stride that was absent yesterday.
The plate lands on the coffee table in front of me with a soft thud. Charred toast, dripping with butter. Overcooked eggs with a few pieces of shell mixed in.
I gawk at the sorry excuse for a meal, unable to process what I’m seeing.
No one cooks for me. Not since my mother died.
Food prepped by professionals who understand my expectations appears because I pay for that to happen.
This disaster before me is so far removed from what I normally eat that words fail me.
Her hip brushes my shoulder, and her fruity scent invades my lungs. Always such a damned distraction. One I didn’t plan for yet am loathe to lose.
A nervous laugh tumbles from her lips. “It’s not my best work. Your stove is different from mine. Much fancier.”
I read the hope written across her face and in the twist of her hands as she awaits my reaction. Her breakfast isn’t defiance. It’s not a test or a challenge or a boundary-pushing exercise.
It’s an offering.
Stifling a pained sigh, I pick up the fork, lift a piece of egg to my mouth, and bite down. Fuck, it’s awful. Rubbery and salty. The toast is no better. The charred bread crunches like gravel, leaving the taste of carbon on my tongue.
Optimism brightens her features. “Good?”
Instead of answering, I set the fork down, striving to ignore the burned brown circles on my plate. Sausage, maybe? Poor pig died in vain. “You said you wanted art supplies.”
Her smile falters, but then the distraction works. “I do.”
“Tell me what you need.” I pull out my phone, ready to make a list and treat this like any other business negotiation. “Pens? Paint? Brushes?”
“A tile nipper and a bag of china remnants. Bottle caps are good too. But I can find those anywhere. I used to get them from work.”
I almost choke on the gulp of orange juice I downed to banish the flavor of rubbery egg and burned toast. “I don’t…what? You want garbage?”
“Not garbage.” She shakes her head with a smile. “Materials. I do mosaics.”
“Mosaics.” Construction? The kind in bathroom tiles and entryways? What the hell’s she trying to do, remodel my loft?
“I take broken things and craft them into something beautiful.” A dreamy quality softens her voice.
“I’ve done it since I was a kid. But in the last few years, I’ve gotten more serious about my art.
I had this dream of doing it full time. You know, shows and stuff.
But who can earn a living as a mosaic artist?
” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh and collapses beside me on the couch.
“Definitely not an overworked cocktail waitress.”
I want to wrap my arm around her and pull her close. Instead, I still, afraid that any motion might send her scurrying away.
She’s never sought proximity to me before.
“But even so,” she wiggles her fingers as if grasping an invisible object, oblivious to my internal struggle, “mosaics are the only things that have always made sense to me. Taking things that are broken, that people would throw away, and finding beauty in reassembling them in a new way.”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second—just a second—I catch a glimpse of an emotion beyond fear or mere will to survive. Genuine feeling triggers her glow.
My chest tightens.
“Oh, and I also need grout, adhesive, and safety goggles.” She breaks the connection to continue listing off supplies in a businesslike tone.
“And substrate boards. Some wooden frames. Clear epoxy resin for finishing. Rubber gloves. The heavy-duty kind, not those flimsy latex ones. Some large canvases would also be nice.”
I nod, fingers flying across my phone screen as I note each item. The list grows, specific and detailed. I record every request with the same attention I’d lend to an arms shipment or a territory negotiation.
She hesitates, nibbling her lower lip. “And…Samantha?”
I lean back to study her face. I’ve already wired the tuition funds via a cash app, so what else could her sister possibly need? “What about her?”
Her expression becomes wary. “Are you going to protect her?”
Aurora’s still keeping secrets and holding back pertinent information. Does she know who trashed her apartment? “From what? What happened?”
“Nothing specific.” She toys with the hem of her borrowed t-shirt. Her stiff shoulders and the way she averts her eyes reveal her transparent lie. “But pretty soon, people will find out that I’m marrying a Kozlov. People might see Sam as…I don’t know, a potential target.”
I let the silence stretch between us. This woman who’s managed to upend my carefully controlled life in a matter of days is a terrible liar. Whatever threat hangs over her and her sister, she perceives the danger as real enough to trade freedom for protection.
Enough even to persuade her to marry me.
A beat passes.
“I’ll handle it.” I don’t push for the truth. Not yet. “Do you want to see her?”
Her response is electric. The wariness vanishes as her face lights up. She practically levitates off the chair.
“Really? I can see her?” Excitement raises her volume. “Sometimes, on Wednesdays, we have coffee at eleven. But I didn’t think…”
Though she trails off, I can fill in the blank. She doesn’t believe I’ll allow her to leave or maintain contact with the outside world. And witnessing her so happy over the mere idea of leaving rankles me.
Then again, if she misses the date with her sister, Samantha will realize something’s off.
I check my calendar while Aurora regards me with hope. “Yes. But today, we’re going out. I’m sure you need toiletries and such.”
She jumps up from the couch and squeals before racing toward the guest room. “I’ll let her know I’ll be there. Thank you!”
Now she’ll behave all day, if only to prevent me from canceling tomorrow’s plans.
This is how I show her who’s truly in control.