Chapter 22
He waves a ladle. “I’ll fetch the paddle!”
ROMAN
Iguide Valentina through the eastern corridor, where warm light spills from the swinging doors of the kitchen. The scents of garlic, butter, and seasonings hit us first. She perks up, nose twitching, eyes curious.
The kitchen is alive with the sounds of pans simmering with oil and butter, knives on wooden boards, mechanical whirls, and the stacking of porcelain plates.
In the center of it all is Emilian.
Our head chef moves like a man who’s fought in a hundred kitchens and survived.
Wiry and stooped slightly with age, he’s all sharp angles and sinew.
His chef whites are pristine but rolled at the forearms, revealing a full sleeve of faded tattoos—some culinary, some Cyrillic, and a few only decipherable if you’ve ever served in a now-defunct Soviet intelligence unit.
One depicts a KGB insignia made of knives. Another is a cat smoking a cigarette.
He moves with obsessive precision, tasting a sauce and correcting a garnish. A cat-shaped timer ticks behind him. His feline obsession is very real, and frankly, the only soft part about him that’s publicly acceptable. He has five well-pampered cats kept in his wing of the manor.
“Emilian,” I announce as I step into his dominion, one hand resting on the small of Valentina’s back.
He doesn’t even turn. “Ack, what do you want, Roman?” His voice is a sharp crack of Russian syllables wrapped in impatience.
“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of divine intervention?
These fools tried to over-reduce the béarnaise.
” He finally spins around and levels me with a narrow-eyed stare.
“You didn’t bring another ‘urgent request,’ did you? ”
Valentina’s brows lift in amusement.
“I’m re-introducing you to my wife,” I reply smoothly. “Not sending you into cardiac arrest. She’s curious,” I say simply.
Emilian wipes his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder and approaches.
“Of course she is. She always is.” Then he blinks and shifts slightly, giving Valentina a small, understanding smile.
“But you are welcome to assume we’ve never met, dorogaya, if that’s more comfortable.
I’ll play along. Pretend I didn’t catch you sampling honeycomb straight from the tray before your untimely accident.
And you. You’re the one from last week, aren’t you? ”
Valentina blinks. “Me?”
“That order. The caviar on warm buttered blini, with the sour cream from the cows in Spa Heaven, and the sirniki with golden honey, and—” he jabs the air with a wooden spoon—“kopi luwak!”
He makes a dramatic pah noise and looks to the heavens, offended but not truly mad.
Valentina’s face flames. “That…might have been me.”
I glance down to see her biting her lip, embarrassed and adorable. I should’ve known she’d blush.
Emilian throws up both hands. “Of course it was. I should have known. ‘Only two types of people order this kind of breakfast: billionaires with no taste buds, or women who know exactly what they’re worth.’”
Valentina touches her mouth, laughing. “I just wanted to see if the menu lived up to the manor.”
He leans closer, conspiratorial now, setting the spoon down. “It did, didn’t it?”
She nods, still laughing.
“Good. Then it was worth it. But do not expect that every morning! I am a genius, not a machine.”
“More like a genius with the personality of a Soviet-era espresso machine,” I mutter.
He swats a hand in my direction. “You’re still not banned from my kitchen, but keep pushing and I’ll reconsider.”
Valentina shoots me a mock-glare, but there’s warm amusement behind her eyes. Radiant in her intrigue.
And Emilian, for all his prickly demeanor, knows exactly how to play the part. He never needs reminders. He never misses a beat.
“Let me know if her Highness would like her eggs a particular way,” he calls out, already sliding back into his rhythm. “Or maybe she’s craving something new. Like the blood of my patience.”
Valentina leans into me, whispering, “Does he always talk like that?”
“Only when he likes someone.”
“Now, be off with you. I’m concocting greatness,” he finalizes.
Valentina darts in before I can stop her, as if pulled by the scent of hollandaise simmering in a small copper pot. She dips a finger in before anyone notices and gives it a playful taste.
Her brow quirks. “Hmm. Could use a touch more salt.”
Emilian spins, scandalized. “Out! No! You cannot just—this is sacred!” He waves a ladle. “I’ll fetch the paddle!”
She giggles. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“OUT!” Emilian bellows, red-faced and flustered. The rest of the kitchen staff is biting back laughter.
I grab Valentina by the waist and pull her out just in time before he throws the ladle like a cleaver. Once we’re safely in the hallway, I spin her and deliver a firm smack to her ass.
She yelps, glaring at me with sparkling eyes.
“I’ll allow your harmless flirting with my staff, Valya,” I murmur, fingers squeezing the soft swell of her bottom. “And I’ll tolerate your subtle dark references to shagging, especially when it comes to Zina and Mikhail.”
Her smile stretches, wicked and sweet.
“But such things like paddles…” I tighten my grip until she shudders, “and other instruments of discipline are mine. And mine alone to wield on your lovely bottom.”
She winks. “Only on my bottom?”
My voice drops to a dark threat. “You keep this up, Moya Koroleva, and I’ll take you to the nearest room, bend you over a table, and spank you raw—staff or no staff to witness.”
Her breath hitches. Her cheeks flush the color of ripe cherries. But she smartly presses her lips together.
“Horosho devochka,” I whisper—good girl—and kiss the shell of her ear.
I take her down a stone staircase to the cellar wing. The cool, earthy scent of wood, citrus peels, and faintly fermented herbs greets us. She gasps when we step into the spirits’ room.
Large glass barrels glisten with hues of violet, gold, and blush rose. Copper pipes twist like serpents around the ceiling. A still in the corner bubbles gently, manned by none other than Levka—my most eccentric employee and proud self-proclaimed “Spirit Lord.”
His red curls are a wild mess. He wears a worn blue sweater with thumb holes and a constellation of burn spots. Even from here, I can tell his pupils are still slightly dilated.
Levka sees us and flourishes a ridiculous, sweeping bow. “Your Ladyship,” he purrs, lifting Valentina’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Even the mushrooms warned me someone divine would enter my domain today.”
Valentina snorts, eyes dancing. “Are you high?”
He narrows his eyes in mock offense. “Only if the day ends in “Y”. I’m slaving over the newest batch of Lovers Vodka. A muse was required.”
“A hallucinogenic muse?” she teases.
“The best kind.” He twirls and gestures to one of the vats. “This batch tastes like heartbreak with a happy ending.”
“I’m intrigued,” she says, resting her hand on my arm.
“One moment.”
Levka takes two shot glasses and fills them with the sample. He slides one toward me, the other toward Valentina, with a wink. “For quality assurance.”
Valentina arches a brow. “Is this safe?”
“Safer than most marriages.” He grins.
“Um…” She bites her lower lip and stares at me.
My jaw ticks. My cock stirs at the not-so-subtle implication in her twinkling eyes. That playful defiance.
Then, she knocks it back in one smooth motion.
Arousing heat rushes through my veins. It’s not the vodka—I haven’t tasted mine yet. It’s her. The way she lifts her chin afterward, lips parted, eyes glassy from the burn. Bold. Daring. Effortless.
I clench my hands behind my back to keep from touching her.
“Oh—hell. That’s dangerous,” she exhales, fanning herself.
Levka beams like a proud father. “Exactly the reaction I was going for.”
“It tastes like… a burned love letter in the middle of a snowstorm,” she says, blinking through the sting. “I like it.”
I chuckle, downing mine. “This is why I married her.”
Levka bows dramatically. “Then I’ll bottle it in her honor. Lovers Vodka: The Valentina Vintage.”
She laughs and leans in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Levy. Can I call you Levy?”
“Only if I can call you Lady Val.” He gives her a flourishing bow.
She turns toward me. “Is he always like this?”
“Only on days ending in -y,” I deadpan. “I assume you have not yet made your daily visit to the greenhouse, Levka?”
Levka perks up. “My mushrooms! And ah! Fleur! She tends to my heart like I tend to the stills.”
Valentina blinks. “Fleur?”
I gesture to the staircase on the opposite side of the room. “Come. I’ll show you.”
Levka follows as we ascend into the west wing, where the warm humidity greets us before we reach the arched glass doors of the greenhouse. I open them and let Valentina step in first.
She gasps.
It’s a lush, living sanctuary. Vines coil from the rafters, roses burst in beds of velvet red, orchids hang like lanterns, and even the air smells floral, fresh, and faintly spiced. The greenhouse is cathedral-like in scope, with winding paths and hidden corners. Not one flower is neglected.
It is the softest place on the island—save for the woman trailing her fingers across a bloom.
“This,” I murmur, coming up behind her, “is Fleur’s domain. And if you’re lucky, you might meet them.”
A soft rustle draws my eye to the right.
From behind a thick line of hibiscus and foxglove, a head pops up—crowned with two perfect black pigtails like ink dripping down pale porcelain. Big black cat eyes blink at us. Fleur doesn’t speak, doesn’t wave. Just peers like a woodland creature, startled but curious.
A moment later, Levka sweeps to their side and kisses their cheek with a flourish. Smiling, Fleur tickles his ribs and boops his nose with a bright pink bloom.
“I was right!” Levka calls over his shoulder, cheerful as ever. “She/her pronouns today.”
As her partner, Levka is allowed to guess. Or predict, considering his shining accuracy.