Chapter 23 Mila
Mila
The smell hits me before I reach the kitchen.
Rich, earthy beets mixed with beef broth and a blend of herbs that takes me back to being seven years old in my grandmother’s tiny apartment. I stop in the doorway and stare at Alexei, who’s standing over the stove, stirring a pot.
“What are you making?”
He turns around, and there’s something almost nervous in his demeanor. “Borscht. Your grandmother’s recipe.”
My throat constricts. I mentioned that dish one time, weeks ago, when he first insisted on keeping tabs on me. Just a passing comment about how nothing had ever tasted as good as Babushka’s cooking. I never expected him to remember, let alone act on it.
“How did you get the recipe?”
“Called your father. Took three tries to get all the measurements right.” He gestures toward the counter, where I can see evidence of his efforts. Beet peels. Multiple bowls with spice combinations. What looks like several failed attempts at getting the color just right.
Something cracks open inside my chest. Not breaking, but shifting. Making space for feelings I’ve kept locked away.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.”
The simple honesty in his voice makes my eyes sting.
For four days now, we’ve been dancing around each other in this bunker, having polite conversations about practical things.
Keeping a careful distance while we work through what the pregnancy means.
But this gesture cuts through all that pretense.
He’s been thinking about me, and about what would make me happy. Connecting me to memories that matter.
“It smells perfect,” I tell him.
“Sit. I’ll bring you a bowl.”
I take a seat at the small table while he ladles steaming soup into ceramic bowls. The first spoonful transports me to Babushka’s kitchen, with its faded linoleum and the way sunlight filtered through her lace curtains. The taste is perfect, with every herb balanced just the way I remember.
“This is incredible, Alexei.”
He sits across from me with his bowl but doesn’t eat, just watches me with an unreadable look.
“You called my father,” I say after several spoonfuls. “What did you tell him?”
“That I wanted to make something special for you. He understood.”
Of course, Papa understood. He might be ruthless in business, but he loved Babushka, too, and probably misses her cooking as much as I do.
“She would have liked you,” I say. “Babushka always said the measure of a man was whether he could appreciate good food and wasn’t afraid to learn new things.”
“What else did she say?”
“That life was too short to waste time on people who didn’t make an effort.” I take another spoonful and feel a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the soup. “She would have approved of this.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a while. The first real peace I’ve felt since Dr. Orlov delivered his news. With each bite, I feel some of the walls I’ve built around my heart crumble.
This man kidnapped me, controlled my life, and made decisions for me without asking what I wanted. But he also spent hours perfecting a recipe from my childhood because he wanted to comfort me.
How am I supposed to reconcile those two versions of him?
“Thank you,” I say when I finish the bowl. “For this. For remembering. For caring enough to get it right.”
“You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you.”
“Yes, I do. You didn’t have to do this. You could have ordered takeout or had someone else cook, but you made the effort.”
Alexei reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I want to take care of you, Mila. You and the baby. I know you need time to decide about marriage, but I need you to know that I’m committed to this. To us.”
The earnestness in his voice makes something flutter behind my ribs. Not just attraction, though that’s a part of it. Something deeper. Something that feels dangerously close to the word he won’t say, and I’m not ready to hear.
I turn my hand over and lace our fingers together. “I know you are.”
“Sometimes, I think you see everything I do as manipulation or control instead of genuine care.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference,” I admit.
I study his face and the sharp angles that are softened by candlelight.
The way his thumb strokes across my knuckles like he can’t help touching me.
The vulnerability he’s trying to hide behind careful neutrality.
“And then sometimes, I think you might actually love me, even if you’re too afraid to say it. ”
His breath catches, and his grip on my hand tightens. “Mila—”
“I’m not asking you to say anything; I’m just acknowledging what I see.”
“What do you see?”
“A man who calls my father to get a recipe he could have easily found online. Who spends hours getting the details perfect because he wants to make me happy. Who looks at me like I’m something precious.”
“You are precious.”
The words come out rough, like they’ve been dragged from somewhere deep inside him. Like admitting it costs something he’s not sure he can afford to lose.
I stand and walk around the table to where he’s sitting. His eyes track my movement, darkening as I approach. When I reach him, I place my hands on his shoulders and feel the muscle beneath flex under my touch.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his ear. “For dinner. For caring. For being the kind of man who thinks about what would make me smile.”
I press a soft kiss to his temple, meaning it as gratitude. As acknowledgment of the effort he made. But when he turns his head and our mouths are suddenly inches apart, gratitude transforms into something much more dangerous.
“We should clean up,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Later.”
I lean in and kiss him, softly at first. Grateful. But when he responds by pulling me closer, gratitude burns away and leaves only desire.
He tastes like the dinner we just shared. Like comfort and care and all the things I’ve been afraid to let myself need. When his hands slide up my back, I melt into him with a sigh that comes from deep in my chest.
I straddle his lap, and the chair creaks under our weight. His hands go to my hips, steadying me as I settle against him. I feel him hardening beneath me, and the knowledge that I affect him this way sends heat pooling in my belly.
“I want you,” I tell him.
“You have me.”
The simple declaration sends shivers racing up and down my arms. This feels different from our previous encounters. It’s less frantic and desperate, more like two people who care about each other instead of two people trying to work through complicated feelings via physical release.
I pull back enough to really look at him. His pupils have dilated, and his breathing has changed. He maintains careful control, even though I can feel just how much he wants this.
“I want to touch you,” I say.
“Then touch me.”
I start with his shirt. Work the buttons open one by one while maintaining eye contact. Each bit of revealed skin makes my mouth water. When I push the fabric off his shoulders, he helps by shrugging out of it.
His chest is a work of art, all lean muscle and scattered scars that tell stories I don’t know yet. I trace one with my fingertip, and he shudders under my touch.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
I lean down and press my mouth to the mark, tasting salt and skin and something uniquely him. His hands tangle in my hair, holding me against him like he’s afraid I might pull away.
I kiss my way across his chest, paying attention to the spots that make him groan. When I reach his collarbone, I bite gently and feel him buck beneath me.
“Fuck, Mila.”
“I like making you lose control.”
“You’re good at it.”
I continue my exploration with lips and tongue, mapping every scar and plane of muscle. He watches with dark eyes, his breathing getting more ragged with each kiss I press to his skin.
I sit back and grab the hem of my sweater before I pull it over my head and drop it on the floor beside his shirt. His eyes go dark as they rake over my body, taking in the purple bra I chose this morning without really thinking about it.
“Beautiful,” he breathes.
“You always say that.”
“It’s always true.”
He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with a flick of the wrist. The fabric falls away, and cool bunker air makes my nipples harden. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling the peaks until I gasp and arch into his touch.
“I love watching you respond to me,” he says.
“I love the way you touch me.”
It’s as close to a declaration as either of us is willing to make right now, but it feels significant, anyway. Like we’re acknowledging something that goes beyond physical attraction.
He leans forward and captures one nipple in his mouth. The wet heat makes me cry out and grind against the bulge in his pants. I can feel him throb beneath me, and the knowledge that I’m affecting him just as much makes me bolder.
I reach between us and work at his belt. The leather is soft and expensive, and it takes me longer than it should to get it undone because his mouth on my breast is making it hard to concentrate on anything else.
When I finally get his pants open, he lifts me just enough to push them down his hips, freeing his rock-hard cock. I wrap my hand around him and stroke, collecting the moisture that leaks from his tip to ease the glide.
“Christ, your hands feel incredible.”
I increase my pace, watching his face as I work him with my hand. His jaw goes slack, his breathing becomes increasingly ragged, and he lets out a strangled moan when I twist my wrist on the upstroke.
“I need to be inside you,” he groans. “Now.”
“Yes.”
He stands, lifting me with him, and turns to set me on the edge of the kitchen table. The wood is cool against my thighs as he works my pants and underwear off in one smooth motion.
“Lie back,” he orders.
I do, and the surface is hard against my spine. But when Alexei moves between my legs and looks down at me like I’m a feast, discomfort becomes irrelevant.
“I want to taste you first.”
“No. I want you inside me. Now.”
“Mila—”
“Please. I need to feel connected to you. After everything that’s happened, I need this.”
Understanding moves across his face. This isn’t just about physical release. It’s about intimacy. About choosing each other despite all the reasons we probably shouldn’t.
He positions himself at my entrance and pushes forward slowly. The stretch is perfect, and I moan as he fills me. When he’s seated all the way inside, we both go still for a moment. Just breathing. Just feeling.
And then he starts moving in long, slow strokes that allow me to feel every inch of him. The table rocks slightly with our rhythm, and I brace my hands against the edge to keep from sliding off.
“You feel incredible,” he groans.
“So do you.”
This is different from every other time we’ve been together. Less frantic. More intimate. Like we’re making love instead of just having sex.
I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper. The new angle makes him hit that spot inside me that turns my vision hazy. My back bows off the table as my pleasure builds.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take what you need.”
“Harder.”
He increases his pace, and the table moves against the wall with each thrust. The sound should be distracting, but instead, it adds to the urgency.
I slide one hand down my body to where we’re joined. My fingers find my clit and start circling with increasing pressure. Alexei watches my every move, and being observed while I touch myself makes everything more intense.
“Show me what you like,” he prompts. “Show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone.”
The request makes me blush, but I do what he asks, circling my clit with the pressure and rhythm that I know works. His eyes never leave my hand, watching every movement like he’s memorizing it for later.
“Fuck, that’s sexy.”
He leans down and captures my mouth in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and desperate need. I can taste his desire and feel how much restraint he’s using to keep from losing control.
“I’m close,” I gasp against his lips.
“Come for me. Let me watch you fall apart.”
His words combine with the pressure of my fingers to push me over the edge. My body convulses around him as waves of pleasure crash through me. I bite his shoulder to muffle the sounds, but he pulls back and shakes his head.
“Don’t. I want to hear you.”
So, I let go, letting him hear exactly what he does to me and how good he makes me feel. How completely he unravels my control.
The sounds I make drive him wild. His thrusts become more erratic. He buries his face in my neck and moans my name like a prayer.
“Don’t hold back. I want to feel you come.”
That’s all it takes. He buries himself deep and empties inside me with a groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from his soul. I feel every pulse as he fills me, and the intimacy of it makes tears prick my eyes.
We stay connected for several heartbeats, both breathing hard. When he finally pulls out, he helps me sit up and wraps his arms around me.
We don’t need words for what just happened. The emotional component was impossible to miss. This wasn’t just physical release. It was something much more significant.
Alexei cups my face in his hands and studies my expression. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something important that might change everything between us.
But before he can speak, his phone rings on the counter where he left it.
“Ignore it,” I whisper.
But the ringing continues, shrill and insistent. After the fourth ring, Alexei curses, pulls out of me, and reaches for it.
“What?” he answers without checking the caller ID.
I watch his face change as he listens to whoever’s on the other end. Color drains from his cheeks, and his free hand clenches into a fist.
“When?” he asks sharply.
More listening. His jaw goes rigid.
“How many men? Where?” He’s already getting dressed. “No. Don’t do anything until I get there. Nothing.”
He hangs up and looks at me with something that might be fear.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Your father’s been kidnapped. Novikov’s men grabbed him outside his attorney’s office an hour ago.”
The words don’t compute immediately. Papa. Kidnapped. By the same family that’s been threatening us for weeks.
“Is he—” I can’t finish the question.
“I’m going to get him back.”
He’s fully dressed now, and I slide off the table and start gathering my clothes. Reality has crashed back with devastating efficiency.
“Alexei?”
“Yeah?”
“Get him back. Whatever it takes, get my father back.”