Chapter 15 Vera
VERA
Something is wrong.
That’s the first thought I have when I wake up the next morning. The house is quiet. Too quiet. The usual sounds of staff moving through the hallways, of Mrs. Kozlov barking orders in Russian, of footsteps and voices and life—all of it is gone.
Because Dimitri sent them away.
“Someone knew our route,” he said when I found him in his office.
“They knew which car we’d be in and what time we’d be leaving.
That level of detail? It came from inside.
” He folded his arms over his chest. “Too many people had access to our schedule and could have leaked that information. Until I figure out who the traitor is, no one gets close. Especially not to you.”
So he’d dismissed everyone except the absolute essentials.
Mrs. Kozlov was allowed to stay (she’d been with his family for thirty years and raised both Dimitri and Alexei.
That was a kind of trust that apparently couldn’t be shaken even by bombs and betrayal).
Dr. Petrov comes for daily check-ins, his presence necessary given my pregnancy.
And a skeleton crew of five of Dimitri’s most loyal and trustworthy men.
Everyone else? Gone. Sent away with generous severance and vague explanations about “security concerns” and “temporary measures.”
The massive fortress that had felt oppressive with its army of staff now feels almost claustrophobic in its emptiness. Just us rattling around in rooms too large, hallways too long, a house built for dozens reduced to two.
Me and Dimitri. Alone together in this self-imposed lockdown.
Now it’s just us. And the forced proximity is driving me absolutely insane.
Not because I hate it, and that’s the problem. I should hate it. I should resent being even more isolated and trapped. I should be climbing the walls with cabin fever now that I’m not even allowed to step outside anymore (Dimitri’s orders—too exposed, too vulnerable, too dangerous, blah blah blah).
But instead, I’m noticing things I really shouldn’t be noticing.
Like how Dimitri hums tunelessly under his breath when he’s concentrating. Or how he always pours my tea exactly the way I like it without having to ask anymore (two sugars, a splash of milk).
Or how when we pass each other in the hallway (which happens constantly now in this suddenly too-small house) we both slow down just slightly.
Our eyes meet and hold for a beat too long.
Sometimes our shoulders brush (just barely) and the contact sends heat racing through my entire body.
Sometimes he’ll press himself against the wall to let me by, and I’ll have to slide past him in that narrow space, so close I can feel his breath, smell his cologne, and hear the slight hitch in his breathing that mirrors my own.
And for those few seconds, the air between us becomes so charged I can barely breathe, every nerve ending screaming at me to close that last inch of distance, to touch him, to—
But we never do. We just pause in that loaded silence, awareness crackling between us like lightning about to strike, before one of us murmurs an excuse and moves on.
And I can’t stop fucking thinking about the almost-kiss.
God, the almost-kiss. It’s been two days since that night in my bedroom when he checked on me after the attack, and we both moved closer and closer until there was barely any space left between us.
Until he pulled back.
A better person would be grateful he did. A better person would be relieved that we didn’t cross that line, and didn’t complicate things even further than they already are.
But I’m not a better person. Instead, I replay those seconds over and over.
The way he looked at me. How his thumb traced my cheekbone and his hand cupped my face.
The moment when we both leaned in, when I could feel his breath on my lips, when I wanted nothing more than to close that last inch of distance and—
I press my palms against my closed eyes, trying to banish the memory. But it won’t go away. It’s seared into my brain, playing on repeat every time I close my eyes.
And the worst part? That almost-kiss feels more significant than the two times we’ve actually had sex.
Is that crazy? I’ve been trying to figure out why that is.
The sex was intense, overwhelming, the kind of physical connection that should have meant something.
But I could explain those away. The first time was the wedding night (obligation, establishing the marriage).
The second time was after my nightmare (comfort, trauma response).
But the almost-kiss? That was different. That wasn’t obligation or trauma or comfort. That was want. Pure, undeniable want. We both leaned in. We both chose it. We both knew exactly what we were doing and we did it anyway.
And that’s so much scarier than sex could ever be.
Because wanting him means something I’m not ready to face. It means acknowledging feelings I shouldn’t have. It means betraying Alexei in a way that goes beyond physical and straight into emotional territory I have no right to explore.
I’m really such a piece of shit.
I’m in the kitchen now, staring at the coffee maker like it holds the secrets of the universe, trying not to think about any of this.
It’s early (barely six am) but I couldn’t sleep.
Again. The nightmares are constant now. Sometimes it’s the car bomb.
Sometimes it’s Alexei’s funeral. Sometimes it’s both, twisted together into some horrific fever dream where I’m watching Dimitri’s car explode while standing at Alexei’s graveside.
I’m so tired I could cry. But crying feels like giving up, so I just make coffee instead.
The kitchen doors swing open, and I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. I can feel him. The air changes when Dimitri enters a room.
“You’re up early,” he observes, his voice still rough from sleep.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I keep my eyes on the coffee maker, watching it drip. “You?”
“Same.” He moves to stand beside me at the counter. We’re not touching, but we are close enough that I’m hyperaware of every inch of space between us. “Nightmares?”
I shrug. “Among other things.”
He doesn’t ask what other things and I’m grateful. Some part of me wonders if he’s having the same problem—lying awake at night, replaying moments that should be forgotten, feeling things that should be impossible.
“I was thinking of making eggs,” he says after a moment. “For breakfast. If you’re hungry.”
I glance at him, surprised. “You cook?”
His ears turn slightly red, which is still the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen. “I can manage eggs. Probably.”
“Probably?” I can’t help the small smile. “That’s not inspiring confidence.”
“I’ve been living on takeout and whatever the cook makes,” he admits. “But how hard can scrambled eggs be?”
Famous last words.
“Oh my God.” I’m trying not to laugh as I stare at the smoking pan. “How did you burn scrambled eggs? They’re literally one of the easiest things to make.”
“I don’t know!” Dimitri unhappily waves a kitchen towel at the smoke detector, which is beeping angrily. “I followed the instructions. Heat the pan, add butter, pour in the eggs—”
I zero in on his first instruction. “On what setting?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “High. To make it cook faster.”
I do laugh then, I can’t help it. The smoke alarm is still beeping, there’s a pan of completely incinerated eggs on the stove, and Dimitri Volkov—feared crime lord, the man who makes grown men tremble—is standing in his kitchen looking utterly baffled by breakfast food.
“You don’t cook eggs on high,” I explain, moving to open windows. “You cook them low and slow. Otherwise you get—” I gesture at the charred mess in the pan. “That.”
He looks so genuinely confused that I want to do something stupid like kiss him. “How was I supposed to know that?”
I shake my head in disbelief as I near the stove. “Did you never watch anyone cook? Ever?” I take the pan from him, dumping the ruined eggs in the trash. “Your mother? Mrs. Kozlov?”
His expression shutters. “My mother died when I was twelve. And Mrs. Kozlov usually kicked me out of the kitchen when I tried to help.”
Oh. The casual way he mentions his mother’s death makes my heart clench. I knew his mother wasn’t around (that was obvious) but seeing the way he says it like it’s just a fact and not a wound that never healed, makes me want to reach for him.
I don’t. But I want to.
“Well,” I say instead, pulling out a fresh pan and trying to banish the bad memories. “Lucky for you, my mother taught me to cook. And I’m going to teach you, so you never commit this crime against eggs again.”
His lips twitch although he still looks a bit haggard. “Crime against eggs?”
I nod. “Yes. It’s very serious. The eggs are probably going to press charges.” I bump into his hip so he moves out of my way. “Now watch. Low heat. Always low heat for eggs.”
I demonstrate, cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork, adding a splash of milk. He watches intently, and I’m hyperaware of his eyes on me. On my hands as they move. On my face when I explain the technique. On the way I bite my lip when I’m concentrating.
“See?” I pour the eggs into the pan. “Low and slow. You keep them moving, folding them over gently. They’ll cook evenly and stay soft.”
“Show me,” he says quietly, and before I can process what he means, he’s stepping behind me, his chest almost against my back.
My breath catches. He’s so close. I can feel the heat radiating off him and I can smell his cologne—that cedar and smoke scent that makes my head spin. His hand comes up, hovering near mine on the spatula.
“Like this?” His voice is low and right by my ear, and I have to suppress a shiver.
“Y-yes. Just—” I swallow hard, trying to focus on the eggs and not on how his body is nearly flush against mine. “Just keep folding them. Gentle. Don’t rush it.”