Chapter 5
Mina
I perched on the edge of a barstool like it might eject me at any second, eyes glued to Nikolai as he moved around the kitchen like some kind of stoic culinary wizard.
He didn’t fumble. He didn’t hesitate. He chopped onions with surgical precision, cracked eggs with one hand like it was nothing, and stirred a pan like he knew what he was doing.
“First,” he said, all calm and confident as he cracked another egg into a bowl, “you whisk. No shells.”
I blinked. “Wait—you’re serious about this. You actually know how to cook?”
He added peppers and something green—parsley? oregano? alien moss?—to the sizzling pan. The smell was divine. Like comfort and warmth and maybe a hug I definitely hadn’t asked for.
“You can’t live off takeout forever,” he said, tossing herbs like he was on a cooking show with a death stare.
I scoffed. “Watch me.”
He gave me a side-eye that could freeze boiling water. “You’ve never cooked?”
“Please,” I said with a dramatic wave. “I microwave frozen dumplings and call it a life skill.”
He gave me that look again. The eyebrow. The smirk. The judgment.
Then he turned back to the stove. “Come.”
I blinked. “Come… where?”
He motioned at the eggs like they’d personally offended him. “Here. You try.”
“Me?” I pointed at the stove like it was a nuclear reactor. “In there? No. That’s your danger zone.”
“Yes,” he said, entirely too satisfied. “It’s omelets. Not war.”
I groaned. “I don’t want to ruin your fancy Russian eggs or whatever.”
“It’s eggs, Freckles.” He smirked. “Not Fabergé.”
Rude.
But also… okay, that was funny.
I took a breath like I was walking into battle and slid off the stool. My knees were maybe shaking a little. Maybe.
He handed me the bowl like it was a sacred object. “Just pour.”
“Okay,” I muttered. “No pressure.” I tilted the bowl—and splat—eggs everywhere. Not catastrophic, but definitely not art.
I squeaked. “Oops!”
“No.” He reached in to guide my hand with the wooden spoon. “Gentle movements.”
“Gentle is not in my vocabulary!” I whispered loudly.
“You surprise me,” he said, dry as ever.
He was close. Like close close. Shoulder-to-shoulder, quiet warmth radiating from him while I tried to stir eggs and not scream internally.
And honestly?
In the mess of sizzling onions, uneven whisking, and his dry corrections?
I laughed. Really laughed. For the first time in what felt like forever.
And standing there—barefoot, confused, cooking eggs with a man who terrified half the league—I felt something weird.
Safe.
Not logical. Not ideal. But real.
I cracked the egg with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business cracking eggs.
It exploded.
Like, full-on egg massacre—splattered yolk across the counter, rogue shell bits everywhere. It looked like breakfast had been murdered and I was the prime suspect.
“Great,” I muttered, scrambling to keep the frying pan from toppling off the stove. I tried to swipe the counter clean with my hand, which only made things worse. Shell shards flew like shrapnel.
Beside me, Nikolai stood with his arms crossed and the smuggest smirk I’d ever seen.
“This is worse than I imagined,” he said, deadpan.
I glared. “Oh, bite me.”
He chuckled. Chuckled. A real, low, slightly-rumbly, honest-to-God laugh.
My stomach did an actual flip. Like I was in high school again and the scary hot guy just looked at me with actual amusement instead of looming menace.
Which was rude, by the way.
I dumped in the garlic and immediately realized the pan was way too hot. Smoke started curling up like my shame made manifest.
“Control the flame,” he said smoothly, that smirk still glued to his face.
“Thank you, Chef Volkov,” I huffed, frantically adjusting the heat like I had any idea what I was doing. “Next time you want dinner made, just hire someone who knows which end of the spatula is up.”
He tilted his head. “Who would that be? You?”
Oh, that was rich.
“Do you have any idea how hard this is?” I snapped, elbow-deep in regret and scrambled egg fragments.
He leaned in—too close. The kind of close where you could feel someone’s body heat and lose your entire train of thought.
“Maybe if you stopped whining and concentrated…”
I looked up at him, spoon halfway to disaster. “Maybe if you stopped smirking.”
“I can’t help it.” His eyes glinted. “It’s like watching a toddler with crayons.”
My mouth twitched. Betrayal.
“At least toddlers have better hand-eye coordination,” I mumbled, trying (and failing) to flip the egg in one smooth motion. It flopped back into the pan like it had a personal grudge against me.
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed again, watching me like this was his new favorite reality show.
“Perfect form,” he said, voice warm with laughter.
I hated that I grinned.
Just a little.
Okay, a lot.
The onions hissed in the pan like they were judging me.
I stirred with what I hoped looked like confidence, even though earlier I’d basically murdered an egg and dropped garlic like I was trying to summon a demon. But now? I had a system. Kinda. Sort of. Mostly.
“Not too much heat,” Nikolai said, leaning in close—close enough that I caught a whiff of his cologne or maybe it was just him—clean, fresh, woodsy, and unfairly calming.
“You want them soft, not charred,” he added, voice deep and smooth and way too casual for someone who just casually owned a kitchen.
“Right,” I muttered, trying to focus on the onions and not the fact that his voice basically wrapped around me like a weighted blanket dipped in aftershave.
How was this happening?
How was the Russian Reaper—yes, the guy who collected penalty minutes like they were Pokémon cards—now calmly teaching me how to sauté vegetables like he hosted a YouTube channel called Slavic Stir-Fry with Nikolai?
I stared at the onions and let their sweet scent lull me into this weird… domestic twilight zone.
This didn’t make sense.
Wasn’t this the same man who turned me into a bet? Who stood across the ice from my then-boyfriend and basically said she’s mine now like he was claiming a parking space?
So why did his hands feel steady when they guided mine? Why did his laugh actually sound like something warm instead of cold steel?
“This isn’t supposed to be easy,” I muttered, mostly to myself, mostly to the onions.
He glanced sideways. “Why not?”
I blinked. “Because it’s you.” The words came out sharper than I wanted. “You don’t do ‘easy.’”
Something flickered across his face—couldn’t tell if it was amusement or irritation. Maybe both. Typical.
“You think I can’t cook?” he asked, deadpan.
“No,” I said quickly, hands flying up in faux surrender. “But you’re, like, a walking hockey penalty. I expected you to brutalize eggs, not nurture them.”
That earned me a full laugh—deep, warm, and why was it kind of attractive?!
I turned back to the pan, stirring like my life depended on it. Because, truly, if I looked at him any longer, I was going to start questioning everything.
This was supposed to be weird. Awkward. Tense. Not… weirdly easy.
And I did not want to like it.
Or him.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice quieter now, like he already knew I was spiraling.
I turned to face him with my best smirk. “Just wondering how many people you’ve made cry over scrambled eggs.”
He arched a brow. “I only make people cry when they lose bets.”
That landed like a slap dressed as a punchline.
My smile faltered. Just for a second.
Right. The bet. The reason I was even standing here.
The reminder that this wasn’t real. That no matter how good the onions smelled, or how warm his laugh sounded, or how much I wanted to sink into this moment—
It was temporary.
And it wasn’t mine.
When we finally finished—and by we, I meant Nikolai—I sat down and stared at the plate like it might grow legs and attack me.
Golden-brown omelet. Caramelized onions. The exact amount of garlic. It looked… professional. Fancy even. Like something from a brunch spot where they charge you $17 for eggs and call it “elevated.”
This didn’t track.
I glanced across the table, where Nikolai sat, arms crossed, wearing an expression so smug I could practically hear him purring.
“It’s surprisingly good,” I muttered, stabbing a bite with suspicion. The flavors hit my tongue, and I nearly groaned. Savory. Rich. Warm. Unfairly good.
“Not bad for the Russian Reaper,” he said, leaning back like he hadn’t just shattered all of my low expectations. The corner of his mouth twitched. Smug.
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”
But yeah… the venom wasn’t really there.
We ate in a silence that wasn’t awkward, which made it worse. It was comfortable. And I hated how much I liked it. I found myself watching him—how casually he moved, how everything he did felt purposeful. Even picking at eggs. How was that intimidating?
And why did my brain keep asking that like it was flirting?
I shifted in my seat and glanced toward the fridge. “So… what’s for dessert?”
He looked up from his plate like I’d asked if he collected bones for fun. “I don’t eat dessert.”
My fork dropped dramatically onto my plate. “What are you, a serial killer?”
He shrugged. Shrugged.
“It’s pointless,” he said. “Sweet is distraction.”
“Right,” I said. “Because cookies are obviously the gateway to emotional collapse.”
He smirked, and it was the worst kind—the kind that said I’m enjoying how much I annoy you.
And wow, it was working.
I pulled out my phone. “Okay, now I have to fix you.”
His eyebrow lifted. “What are you doing?”
“Ordering a warm cookie pie. For educational purposes.”
“Is this what rehabilitation looks like?”
“Exactly,” I said, scrolling through the app. “Phase one: butter and sugar.”
“You really think you can change me with baked goods?” he asked, amused in that quiet, too-cool way of his.
I looked up and gave him my sweetest, fakest smile. “I know I can.”
He just shook his head like I was an unsolvable riddle he wasn’t sure he wanted to decode.
We fell into silence again—cozier this time. Like we were both pretending we weren’t waiting for dessert like two emotionally constipated humans trying to outrun feelings.
Eventually, we started talking again. Bantering. Joking. Somewhere between mocking his no-sweets lifestyle and me threatening to throw flour at him next time, we were… laughing.
Like, real laughing.
Like we weren’t bound by a stupid bet or thirty tangled strings of trauma.
And for a few quiet minutes in that sterile, sharp-edged house?
Everything was warm.
Everything was simple.
Even if it wouldn’t last.
The doorbell rang like destiny itself had arrived.
I jumped up from my chair so fast I nearly tripped over it. “Finally! Dessert time!”
I practically skipped to the door, flung it open, and there it was—glory in a cardboard box. “Warm Cookie Pie,” the label declared in big, joyful letters that smelled like chocolate and victory. The delivery guy gave me a weird look, but whatever. I was in my element.
“Thank you!” I sang, clutching the box like it held the secrets to world peace. Which, honestly? It kind of did.
I darted back to the table, holding it out like Simba on Pride Rock. Nikolai just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyebrow practically ascending into orbit.
“Really,” he said, voice dry enough to dehydrate a plant. “You ordered dessert.”
“Not just any dessert,” I declared, flipping the lid open with a flourish. “Behold—a warm, gooey, melty, magnificent cookie pie. You’re welcome.”
He looked at it like it was radioactive. “You expect me to eat that?”
“Yes,” I said, scooping out a perfect piece and sliding it toward him like it was part of an ancient ceremony. “Consider it an emotional exercise.”
He stared. “What if it’s terrible?”
“Then you’ll suffer in silence. Like a gentleman.”
He sighed, picked up the fork like it was a weapon he didn’t quite trust, and slowly—very slowly—took a bite.
I watched him like I was conducting a scientific experiment. First bite: cautious. Chew: slow. Expression: neutral.
Then his brows twitched. Just a little.
“Well?” I demanded, practically vibrating. “Admit it. That was magical.”
He set the fork down like he wasn’t already planning another bite. “It’s… fine.”
I gasped. “You hate that you don’t hate it!”
“I do not,” he said, straight-faced. But his lips twitched. Twirched.
I grinned like I’d just cracked the code to the enigma that was Nikolai Volkov.
“You’re welcome,” I said sweetly. “Growth. Look at you. Feeling things. Eating sugar. Becoming human.”
“You are chaos,” he muttered.
“Beautiful chaos,” I corrected.
He didn’t argue.
We were still eating—well; I was devouring cookie pie like it was sacred. He, naturally, was picking at it with all the enthusiasm of a man tasting joy for the first time and deeply resenting the experience.
He glanced up. “You’ve got…”
I blinked. “Wait—do I have food on my face?”
My hand immediately flew to my cheek. “Where? Is it bad? Is it—”
“It’s the other…” he said, voice lower now. He didn’t finish the sentence.
Instead, he reached across the table—slow, deliberate—and brushed his thumb along the corner of my mouth.
My breath caught.
His eyes didn’t move. Not from mine. Not for a second.
He wiped the smudge of chocolate away, then brought his thumb to his mouth.
And ate it.
Still watching me.
Still holding me there with nothing but a look.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “Sweets are… distracting.”
A jolt shot straight to my pelvis so fast and sharp it made me flinch—not outwardly, but inside, where everything curled tight like a fist.
His thumb.
His mouth.
That look.
It was too much.
Too intimate.
Too deliberate.
I tore my gaze away, staring hard at the table like it had the answers to every inappropriate thought suddenly hijacking my brain. I couldn’t look at him again. Not right now. Not while my body was still reeling from a touch that lasted half a second and rewired everything.
Even so… the world didn’t feel sharp or loud or tangled. Just warm. Just… right.
And maybe it was the sugar crash or the fact that my shoulders had finally unclenched for the first time in weeks, but as I stretched out on the couch, I barely noticed how close he was.
I leaned into him.
His shoulder was solid, warm, just there.
And before I could second-guess it, my eyes drifted shut.
And I stayed.