Chapter Two
Viktor
I show up at her shop the next day.
Not for the protection fee.
Not for business.
For her.
I tell myself it’s because Mikhail asked me to check in on her while Andrei’s gone— “just until he’s back,” he’d said. A simple favor. One I could have handled from a distance. A phone call. A drive-by. Sending one of my men.
But I’m here.
Hands full.
My arms are literally full with a takeout bag in one hand, a soft chew toy shaped like a duck in the other, and dog treats in my jacket pocket.
It’s ridiculous.
I know this.
I’ve never walked into any building carrying anything this domestic.
But I push open the glass door anyway, the bell above it giving that same bright little jingle that annoyed me yesterday—until I saw her.
She’s behind the counter arranging peonies in a vase, her hair falling forward as she leans in. Brown, soft, shoulder length. It curls a little at the ends, brushing her collarbones. She looks up and God, those eyes…those warm brown-green depths that change color with the light.
Right now when she’s looking at me with her mouth slightly parted like fish caught on dry land. I stare at those lips a second longer. Too soft for this world. For men like me.
She’s so damn beautiful.
Not in the flashy, look-at-me way some women try to be. In a way that makes my chest tighten without permission.
In a way that makes me want to stare.
To keep staring.
To get closer.
“Viktor?” she says, voice soft with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
I lift the duck toy. “Wooing your dog.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“And I brought food.” I hold up the bag. “For you.”
Her cheeks flush a shade I could learn to crave.
“I—why?”
I could lie.
I should lie.
But the truth presses against my teeth.
“I wanted to see you again.”
She swallows, her fingers curling around the edge of the counter like she needs something to hold. Her nervousness hits me low and sharp, not because it annoys me, but because it’s real. Honest.
Most people hide what they feel around me.
Fear. Greed. Hate.
All masked behind fake smiles.
Natalya doesn’t mask anything.
She feels openly, even when she tries not to.
That alone makes her dangerous to a man like me.
Vanda peeks out from under the counter. When she sees me, her ears prick up. She doesn’t come running, but she doesn’t hide either. That’s progress.
I offer her the duck.
“See? Peace offering.”
She inches forward, sniffs, then snatches it from my hand and trots away with it. The tiniest smile tugs my mouth.
Natalya laughs, a soft, breathy sound that hits me dead center.
“She likes you,” she says.
“I know,” I answer simply.
Her lips twitch. “Cocky.”
“Honest,” I correct, stepping closer. Not touching her. Not crowding. But close enough that she feels me, the same way I feel her. “Dogs respond to truth.”
She tilts her head slightly. “And people?”
“People lie,” I say. “Even to themselves.”
Her breath catches.
I move past her toward the small table in the corner and set the food down. She watches me the whole time, her eyes wide, cheeks flushed, fidgeting with a ribbon from a bouquet she was wrapping.
She’s nervous.
And I shouldn’t like that.
But I do.
I sit, elbows on my knees, watching her in return.
There is something about her that pulls emotions out of me I haven’t felt in years. Maybe ever. This magnetic, electric thing between us, it shouldn’t exist. But it’s there. Unavoidable.
Undeniable.
I clear my throat and force myself to speak, to say something normal.
“Mikhail asked me to check on you while Andrei is away.”
Her brows lift. “So you’re babysitting me?”
“No.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. I soften it. “I’m making sure you’re safe.”
She shifts on her feet. “You could have sent someone else. Or called.”
“I could have,” I say.
But I didn’t.
I hold her gaze, letting the truth show in the smallest way. Not too much. But enough.
“I wanted to come myself.”
Her lips part. Her cheeks flush again. She looks away, overwhelmed. And it should make me sit back. Give her space. Keep this simple.
It doesn’t.
Instead, something inside me settles. A possessiveness that I never expected.
I want this woman. She’s mine
She brings color into a world that’s been gray for far too long.
She clears her throat quietly and looks away.
“I—it’s late. I should lock up now.” She starts to walk away, then pauses, turns around slightly, her eyes not quite meeting mine. “You wanna um, eat that upstairs?” she asks, gesturing to the bag of food resting on the table.
My chest tightens and I could swear my heart skipped that moment. “Sure,” I mutter, playing it cool. “I’d love that.”
She nods and starts to pack up some of the arrangements, while Vanda peers up occasionally from his place behind the counter.
I help to carry flower pots and dainty vases, amused at her gentle bossiness as she gives instructions.
She moves around the shop with practiced ease, small, efficient motions, like she’s done the same routine a thousand times.
Soon, we’re done and she locks the front door, flip the sign, and turns off the lights.
Then Vanda and I follow her up the narrow stairs to the second floor, where the large storage space is filled with rows and rows of orchids in varying color and sizes.
I stop without meaning to.
I’ve seen plenty of things in my life—expensive things, rare things, dangerous things…but this?
This feels peaceful.
“This yours?” I ask.
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Most people think orchids are difficult, but once you understand what each one needs, they thrive.”
I walk closer, hands behind my back, careful not to touch anything. There are delicate purple blooms with speckled centers, bright white ones shaped like stars, and tall, cascading pink varieties that look like falling petals.
“It’s impressive,” I say honestly.
Her eyes soften. “You really think so?”
“I do.”
She moves to a large cluster of vivid violet orchids, the petals open wide and bright like little bursts of color.
“This one is called Vanda,” she says, brushing one petal with the back of her finger as she flashes her dog a fond smile. “They’re rare. Beautiful. Sensitive. Won’t thrive in the wrong environment. It’s why I named Vanda after her.”
I look at her then—really look at the stray strand of hair that keeps falling forward, her gorgeous hazel eyes glowing with pride and warmth, and her slightly flushed cheeks.
My lepestok.
She doesn’t even realize how much life she carries with her…how much softness and color.
“How many types do you have here?” I ask, though I don’t usually ask pointless questions. But she makes it easy.
“A lot,” she laughs nervously. “I, um—a lot.”
She starts explaining them to me, names, origins, what colors mean what, her voice rising with excitement with each sentence. She lights up from the inside, glowing like one of her orchids.
I should be bored.
I should be thinking about the job I left unfinished for the night, the calls I need to return.
Instead, I’m standing here, listening.
Actually listening.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling until she suddenly stops short, eyes widening in embarrassment.
“Oh God, I’m babbling.” She clasps her hands together. “Sorry. I just—sorry.” She presses her lips to gats to stop herself from babbling more, a deep blush climbing up her neck. “Let’s move upstairs,” she says quickly, leading me to the third floor apartment she shares with Andrei.
“What did you bring?” she asks.
“Varenyky,” I say, gauging her reaction. It was not a huge risk, every Russian loves the dumpling-like comfort food.
“What kinds?” she asks with a smirk.
“Potato, cabbage, cheese,” I say, taking the containers out and setting them on the large coffee table in her living room. “And for dessert, I brought cherry ones.”
She lights up at that. “Cherry is my favorite!” The joy on her face makes the risk of coming here worth it.
“Let me get some plates and placemats,” she says, turning towards the kitchen, Vanda right at her heels.
I settle on the long couch, looking around the apartment. It’s small—probably a far cry from where she grew up—but warm with a simplicity that suits her just perfectly.
She walks back in, Vanda still paddling behind her, and sets down the placemats, plates, and napkins before returning to the kitchen. Vanda settles in front of the small fireplace.
Natalya returns a moment later with two seltzer waters before joining me on the couch.
“Thank you,” I say, before doling out the varenyky on each of our plates.
“No, thank you for the food,” she says. “I would’ve forgotten to eat today if you didn’t bring it.” I don’t like that at all, and make a mental note to make sure she eats every day, at least while Andrei is gone.
For a while, we eat in comfortable silence. She sighs softly and leans back against the couch. I glance at her and for a second I can’t look away.
She’s so damn beautiful
“How are you doing without Andrei around?” I ask, trying to distract myself with small talk.
“Not bad, I guess…” she says with a shrug.
“I’m holding up pretty well but I miss him.
” She looks away, taking a small sip from her coffee cup.
“He’s been such a constant in my life—the only thing that didn’t suck.
Having the type of parents we did was hell, but Andrei shielded me for most part.
He’s always been my protector and not having him around right makes me feel… vulnerable?”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
My chest tightens with emotions I can’t define right now. But one thing is certain; I’d protect her with my life. Right now. In this moment.
“I—I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she says with a conscious laugh. “You’re just really easy to talk to.”
Easy to talk to?
No one has ever said that to me before.
People usually talk around me.
Or at me.
Or not at all.