17. Mira
seventeen
Mira
" Y ou're burning the mushrooms."
Eighteen hours since I left him in the common room. Ten hours of Cole keeping us on opposite ends of the city. Smart man.
The words hit him before I can even touch him. Jax jumps, wooden spoon clattering against cast iron. The kitchen island stretches between us. Six feet of smooth expanse I'm about to eliminate.
I'm around it before he can turn. His shoulders lock tight as I press against his back, chest brushing him through thin cotton. Heat radiates between us.
"Jesus—fuck—Mira, how do you—" The words tangle. His free hand grips the counter edge, knuckles white against the granite.
I reach around him, trapping his hand on the spoon handle. The gas flame warms my hand as I guide his movements, correcting his technique with practiced control.
"Russians don't announce themselves in kitchens." My breath hits his neck. He shivers. "We just fix things before they become problems."
The threat underneath makes his breathing change. Deeper, controlled. Fighting his body's initial response.
Good. This is exactly the reaction I need.
His body relaxes incrementally against mine. Cologne mixes with garlic and butter. The kitchen smells like home. Like it did before everything went to hell.
He's attempting beef stroganoff. From scratch.
"Where did you learn to cook?"
"Uh—YouTube. And a lot of—" Sauce splashes as he stirs too fast. "A lot of trial and error. Took a few tries to get it right."
His fingers drum against granite—2-1-5, 2-1-5. Even cooking can't quiet the pattern.
He's been at this for hours. While I soaked away the stress of Alexei's operations.
I put my hand over his, slowing his frantic stirring.
"You mentioned your grandmother's cooking. The, uh—" Words stumble like he's sixteen. "Beef stroganoff with too much sour cream and black bread on Sundays."
The memory strikes ma. Babushka's cramped Brighton Beach kitchen, flour dusting her apron, the wooden chair I stood on to stir while she hummed Russian lullabies.
I barely mentioned it in passing days ago. How does he remember these details when I've forgotten sharing them?
The warmth of his body against mine feels too comfortable, too right.
Most men hear what serves them. He hears what matters to me. Dangerous territory. Step back.
I lean closer. "Turn around."
He complies instantly, wooden spoon clutched like a lifeline. I take it, our fingers brushing. His pupils dilate at the contact, irises shifting blue to green in the kitchen light.
"Watch." I demonstrate figure-eights through cream sauce, slow and thorough. "My babushka would say American beef stroganoff is tragedy. Too little cream, too much rush."
He tracks my movements as if memorizing every detail. Being watched this closely makes my pulse race.
"The secret is patience." I step in front of him to put his hand back on the spoon and guide it as the sauce cooks, his body caging mine against granite. "You can't force the flavors. They need time to..."
Trust. Blend. Become something new.
The words stick in my throat. This careful attention, the way he remembers throwaway comments, it's exactly how I build leverage before destroying marks.
Except he's not trying to control me. He's trying to care for me.
His breathing shifts. His free hand finds my hip, fingers spreading wide. Possessive but uncertain.
"Mira."
The way he says my name, prayer and claim combined, makes my chest tighten dangerously.
"Don't burn my dinner, sweet boy."
I duck under his arm and step away to see his smile transform his face completely, shifting from careful professional to something far more dangerous.
"We should invite everyone for dinner," I hear myself saying.
"Yeah?" Hope flickers across his features, unguarded.
"There's something I need to tell everyone."
His grip on my hip tightens. "Good something or bad something?"
I consider the truth waiting on my tongue. About Mikhail's training methods, about lines crossed that should horrify him.
"Complicated something."
The scent draws Remy from his room. He appears in the doorway, hair slightly rumpled, that easy smile already in place.
"Боже мой, что это za zapakh?" He breathes in, nostrils flaring. " My God, what is that smell? Actual Russian cooking?"
I spin toward him in surprise. "You speak Russian?"
"'Picked it up,'" Jax scoffs, but he's grinning.
"Right. Like how you just 'adapt' to whatever accent you need for undercover work.
Or how you 'casually' blend into high society like you were born to it.
" His hand continues guiding the spoon through the gentle stirring motions.
"Saint's too modest about his chameleon act. "
"It's not that impressive," Remy protests, but his ears redden slightly.
"Fuck off, Remy." Jax's grin widens. "Next you'll tell us reading people like books is just a hobby."
Asher materializes behind Remy, dark eyes assessing. "Something smells edible."
He pauses seeing Jax at the stove, one eyebrow moving slightly, a micro-expression only someone trained would catch.
Cole follows them in, drawn by the conversation and cooking smells.
"We should get everyone on video call," Jax suggests, glancing between the three men who've gathered. "Mira has something to tell the team."
"Video calls for dinner?" Cole's already pulling out his laptop. "This better be good, Knight."
Cole arranges his laptop on the island while Asher connects it to the wall-mounted screen, angling the display so we can see it from the dining table.
Jax stays close enough that his hip bumps mine every time he reaches for plates. Deliberate. Testing boundaries.
I distribute generous helpings, Russian-sized portions, and we settle around the table with our food.
Within minutes, faces appear across the display. Kade and Alina at his kitchen table with pasta. Xander's massive frame fills his screen as he works through what looks like a full breakfast spread. Eggs, bacon, toast, the works. Damian's cold stare from whatever shadows he inhabits.
Vanessa bounces into view with cereal. "Hi Asher! God, I miss you!"
"We talked two hours ago."
"That's not the same as being there. When are you coming back?"
"When Cole stops assigning me babysitting duty." His eyes flick to Jax.
"Hey!" Jax protests setting down his fork.
"Is that breakfast or dinner?" Kade asks, squinting at Xander's screen.
"Yes." Xander takes another bite of bacon. "Time is a construct."
"Cereal for dinner, V?" Alina judges through the screen.
"I realized I don't like cooking for one anymore." Vanessa defends. "Besides, I'm not risking another cooking attempt after the pasta incident."
"That was one time—" Asher starts.
"One time the smoke alarm went off. Three times the pasta turned into concrete."
For a moment, comfortable silence settles as everyone focuses on their food, the satisfied quiet of people enjoying a good meal together.
"Вкусно," Remy says after his first bite. " Delicious. This is legitimate babushka cooking."
"YouTube University," Jax mutters, but he's watching me, not Remy.
Cole takes a bite, nods approval. "Better than the shit we usually eat."
Conversation flows. Damian's rare smile when Vanessa teases him about his whiskey dinner, Alina showing photos of her latest investigation while Kade reviews something on his tablet between bites.
Stop. They're not marks. But they're not family either.
The warmth around the table feels dangerous. Too comfortable. Too right.
But what if they could be?
My fork hits ceramic with accidental force. Every pair of eyes, physical and digital, turns toward me. The room goes quiet except for electronics humming.
"I need to tell you something about my real background."
Jax's fork clatters against his plate. Under the table, his knee finds mine. Not comfort. Contact. Like he needs to know I'm still here.
Cole leans forward, mind already working. Asher goes perfectly still.
"My real name is Miroslava Sokolov." The syllables feel foreign on my tongue. I haven't spoken them aloud in almost a decade.
Dead silence.
Remy's fork pauses mid-air, something flickering across his face. Recognition?
"My family owned art authentication and shipping networks across Europe and America." Faces turn toward me, expressions shifting in real time, and Jax starts drumming his fingers. "Legitimate businesses. We'd been out of the criminal world for a generation."
Through laptop screens, Damian's expression sharpens to laser focus.
"Past tense," Kade notes, carefully neutral. "What happened?"
The question I've been dreading and craving equally.
"Alexei Petrov—the one I've been tracking—he was my father's business partner for ten years. I called him Uncle Alex."
The drumming stops. Jax's hand flattens on the table, fingers splayed wide. A vein pulses visibly at his throat.
"When I was sixteen, he decided our shipping routes and authentication networks were too valuable to share."
Tell them. Tell them how you watched it happen.
"He orchestrated my parents' assassination. Made it look like a business rival, but..." I meet Jax's eyes. His knuckles are white. "I was supposed to die with them. Alexei needed a clean transition of assets."
His chair scrapes against hardwood. Suddenly he's behind me, hands settling on my shoulders. His heat radiates through my shirt, possessive and protective. Claiming space. Claiming me.
"But you survived." Vanessa's voice comes soft through the speaker.
"Mikhail Volkov acquired me afterward. Convinced me I'd chosen to become a weapon rather than a victim." My laugh sounds hollow. "That I wanted the training, the kills, the whole life."
"So, the Petrov connection isn't just operational," Alina states matter-of-factly, pen moving across a notebook that has suddenly materialized. "It's personal."