Chapter Three #2
Probably in more ways than one.
I tried not to stare at his hands—large, powerful, with long fingers that handled the knife with surprising delicacy.
"I assume electronic manipulators still require actual sustenance?" he asked over his shoulder, a hint of humor in his voice.
"No, we photosynthesize and occasionally feed on the tears of IT professionals," I deadpanned. "Of course we eat. My ability doesn't change my biology."
He nodded as if I'd confirmed a theory. "How does it work? Your ability."
I watched him place a pot on the stove, adding ingredients with measured movements. "Why do you want to know? Trying to figure out if I'm worth whatever trouble O'Rourke is going to cause you?"
"Curiosity," he replied simply. "In my long life, I've encountered various supernatural abilities, but electronic manipulation is new to me."
I drummed my fingers on the counter, debating how much to reveal. "It's like... hearing a conversation in another room. Most people know there's something electronic around them, but they can't really sense it. I can. Not just sense it, but join the conversation. Redirect it."
"Fascinating." He sounded genuinely interested as he stirred the pot on the stove. "And is it limited to direct contact or can you affect systems from a distance?"
"Trying to figure out if I can disable your security from the guest bedroom?" I smirked. "Depends on the system and how complex it is. Simple things, further away. Complicated things need more focus, closer proximity."
Nicolai nodded, then moved to a bread box on the counter. He extracted a loaf of what looked like dark rye and began slicing it with practiced efficiency. Each slice was perfectly even, arranged on a wooden board with the same precision I imagined he applied to organizing his criminal enterprises.
"So you're harboring a fugitive now?" I challenged, watching him work. "Doesn't seem like standard crime boss protocol."
His dark eyes flicked up to mine, then lingered on my lips just long enough to send an unexpected warmth through my chest. "Nothing about this situation is standard."
The way he said it—low and rumbling—made me swallow hard.
I was suddenly very aware of the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he reached for bowls in an overhead cabinet.
The fabric strained against muscles that hadn't come from a gym membership, but from a lifetime of.
.. whatever bear shifter crime bosses did to stay in shape.
Mauling rivals?
Forest cardio?
Focus, Mishka. This is not the time to admire the physique of the predator who's currently making you dinner.
But it was difficult not to notice. Especially when he moved around the island to place a steaming bowl of borscht in front of me, the rich aroma making my mouth water instantly.
The soup was a deep burgundy, topped with a dollop of sour cream that slowly melted into the heat.
Beside it, he placed the board with slices of dark bread.
"Eat," he instructed, his voice softer than his command suggested.
I didn't need to be told twice. The first spoonful nearly made me groan aloud—rich, savory, with layers of flavor I couldn't begin to identify. I tried to eat slowly, to maintain some dignity, but hunger won out over pride.
Nicolai sat across from me with his own bowl, watching me with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. I noticed his nostrils flare slightly whenever I shifted position, as if he was cataloging my scent.
The bear, I realized, was always present, just beneath the surface.
"Good?" he asked, though my rapid consumption had already answered the question.
"It's edible," I conceded, then added more honestly, "It's actually amazing. Did they have culinary school a century ago or is this a skill you picked up between territorial disputes and whatever else bear shifter crime bosses do?"
He looked amused. "My mother taught me, before I was turned."
That pulled me up short. "Turned? You weren't born a bear shifter?"
"No." His expression closed slightly. "That's a story for another time."
I tore off a piece of bread, using it to sop up more soup. "Fine, keep your origin story to yourself. But you still haven't explained why you're helping me. What's your angle?"
"Does there need to be an angle?" he countered.
"In my experience, yes," I replied flatly. "Nobody does anything without expecting something in return. Especially not people in your... profession."
Nicolai set down his spoon, fixing me with that intense gaze. "Perhaps I simply find the idea of O'Rourke adding your abilities to his collection distasteful."
"Professional rivalry, then?" I raised an eyebrow.
"In part," he admitted. "O'Rourke is... problematic. His methods lack finesse."
I snorted. "Unlike your refined approach to organized crime?"
"There are lines I don't cross," Nicolai said, his voice hardening slightly. "O'Rourke sees no lines at all."
Something in his tone made me believe him, which was uncomfortable. I didn't want to start thinking of one crime boss as more ethical than another. That was a slippery slope I wasn't ready to slide down.
"So I'm just a pawn in your ongoing chess match with O'Rourke," I said, trying to sound indifferent despite the ridiculous pang of disappointment I felt.
Nicolai's eyes narrowed slightly. "No."
The single word hung between us, loaded with meaning I couldn't quite decipher. Before I could press him, he rose and moved to the refrigerator again, extracting a bottle of water which he placed in front of me.
"You're not a pawn, Mishka," he continued, remaining standing, his height even more imposing from my seated position. "You're..." He paused, seeming to search for the right word. "Unexpected."
I opened the water bottle, suddenly needing something to do with my hands. "That doesn't actually clarify anything."
"No, I suppose it doesn't." He watched me drink, his gaze tracking the movement of my throat. When I set the bottle down, I caught him staring at my lips again, a flash of something primal crossing his features before he controlled it.
Heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with the soup. What is wrong with me? Stockholm syndrome doesn't set in this fast, does it?
I pushed my empty bowl away slightly, needing some distraction from the intensity building between us. "This was... unexpectedly good. Thank you."
He inclined his head slightly, accepting the thanks with a grace that seemed at odds with his imposing presence. "You're welcome. Would you like more?"
"No, I'm good." I tapped my fingers against the marble countertop, feeling the hum of electronics embedded within it. Security systems, temperature controls, probably even the lighting—all at my fingertips, quite literally.
"So what now?” I asked. “We just sit around waiting for O'Rourke to give up? Because I can tell you from experience, he's not the giving-up type."
Nicolai's expression darkened. "Neither am I."
The way he said it sent another involuntary shiver through me—part warning, part promise. And somehow, despite everything rational in me screaming to run, I believed him.
An awkward silence settled between us as we finished our meal. I stared at my empty bowl, suddenly aware that the hunger keeping me distracted had been satisfied, leaving room for other, more complicated feelings to take its place.
The tension in the air had shifted from wariness to something thicker, heavier—something I wasn't ready to name but couldn't stop feeling.
When Nicolai stood to collect our dishes, I jumped up too quickly, nearly knocking over my water bottle. "I'll help," I said, grabbing it before it spilled.
He raised an eyebrow. "That's not necessary."
"I insist." I reached for my bowl before he could take it. "I may be a fugitive under your protection, but I'm not helpless. Or rude. My mother raised me better than to sit while someone else cleans."
Something softened in his expression at the mention of mothers. "As you wish."
I followed him to the sink, bowl in hand, trying to ignore how the kitchen suddenly felt much smaller with both of us standing in it. Nicolai's presence seemed to expand, taking up more than just physical space. The air itself felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Get a grip. He's a crime boss who turns into a bear, not a rom-com love interest.
Still, I couldn't help noticing things I should have been ignoring—like how his sleeve rode up when he reached to turn on the faucet, revealing a muscled forearm dusted with dark hair, or how he moved with a predator's grace despite his size.
"Do you wash or do you dry?" he asked, his accented voice dropping lower in our proximity.
"I'll wash," I said quickly, needing something to do with my hands besides notice his.
He stepped aside, allowing me access to the sink, but the movement brought us momentarily closer. I caught his scent—something woodsy and masculine that had no right to be as appealing as it was.
This is ridiculous. I'm not some fairy tale character being seduced by the big bad wolf. Or bear, in this case.
I focused intently on washing the bowls, aware of Nicolai beside me, holding a dish towel with those large, capable hands.
We worked in silence for a few moments, passing dishes between us in a strangely domestic dance. Each brief contact of fingers sent little jolts through my system that had nothing to do with my electronic abilities.
"You're unusually quiet," Nicolai observed, his voice rumbling through the small space between us. "No clever remarks about crime bosses doing dishes?"
I kept my eyes on the soapy water. "I'm saving them up, building a stockpile for future use."
He chuckled, a deep sound that I felt more than heard. "Your sense of humor is... refreshing."
"Most people call it annoying," I admitted, scrubbing the pot with more force than necessary.
"I'm not most people."