Chapter 22 #2
Semyon stands behind us, hands on hips. My heart melts a little. He's so handsome, so protective, all scowling and Superman-like. The girl who was waiting on us gets all flustered when he folds his arms, revealing his muscular forearms.
"Maybe you shouldn’t eavesdrop on our conversation because it has nothing to do with you," Yana says.
"Yeah," Zoya adds, but she flushes bright pink when he gives her a stern look.
"Maybe what you have to say to my wife has everything to do with me." But I can’t tell if his eyes behind his glasses are twinkling. "Anya, I'm going to have the girls take these packages home. You and I have work to do with the bakery."
He leans in and kisses my cheek, lacing his fingers through mine. Zoya gawks. Yana grins.
When I look outside, I notice that a car idles by the curb, purring softly.
I wave. “Bye, girls.”
They wave and watch as I walk hand-in-hand with him. I'm well aware of the eyes of all the people around us. Zalivka is a small, working class city outside of Moscow. Everyone knows who the Kopolov family is. That means they know who I am too.
"I finished running the financials for your business," Semyon says as he opens the car door for me. By now, I know not to even reach for it. "I'm pretty confident that we can bring it back in the black, but you're going to have to make some changes.”
He talks on and on about numbers, distribution, and industrial machinery, but all I can think about is making sure that my mom's special place—that she created with her own two hands—doesn't go down.
I nod, processing.
He slides into the driver's seat, shuts the door, and begins to drive toward the bakery.
“Listen, Semyon, I understand all this, but I need to make sure this does not become an industrial production company, no matter how much money it makes. This matters to me. I want to keep it small."
"We will," he promises.
“But let’s be honest. You wanted this location. You wanted me because you want access to the bakery."
Something tugs at my chest, an uneasy feeling I can’t quite place.
"We will honor what your mother started, Anya," he promises. "You have my word.”
I didn't expect this rush of emotion when I got here. God, I’m a mess today.
The memory of Semyon bringing me my first birthday cake, my mother elbow-deep in a bowl of bread flour, Eli snatching a cookie off a sheet so hot it burned his fingers—it all hits me with the force of a tornado, and I shove it down. We're here for a reason.
Semyon gives a quick, assessing look around the place.
"You need new appliances. Those are shit." I stare at the appliances my mother scraped for. He goes on as if he didn’t just punch me in the gut. "New flooring, new countertops. New fucking everything. No wonder you aren’t selling that well."
"Hey." My hands are anchored on my hips, but he misses it because he's already in the freezer.
"And this is a fucking hazard. Goddamn it, Anya, if you or Stefan got stuck in here…”
I ignore him, heat rising in my chest. I remember what Zoya and Yana told me: He doesn't understand the impact his words have on others. He needs to be told. I get this, but still…
"You said we're opening our doors at regular time tomorrow, right?" I ask him.
"Yes," he says from the depths of the pantry. “God, this is a safety hazard too.”
He steps out, holding a massive bag of sugar balanced on one shoulder and a tray of baking supplies in his hand.
“Who stacked fifty-pound bags on top of each other like that?” He sets the sugar down with a thud, pulling a massive jar of cinnamon teetering on the edge of collapse.
“And why is this on top of the bags? One wrong move, and this is going up in a cloud, and do you know you could actually choke on cinnamon?”
He narrows his eyes as he nudges a half-open container with his foot. “Seriously, you could lose a limb back there.”
He doesn't know what he's saying, I remind myself. He doesn't understand that I’m taking this personally, and I am taking every damn word personally. I remind myself again. I put my hair up in a messy bun and tie on an apron, and by the time he returns to me, I am elbow-deep in flour.
"What the hell are you doing, Anya?"
"You just told me we're opening in the morning," I tell him. "Obviously, if we're opening in the morning, I need to have some things proofed for baking. And I have to get here before the sun rises; you know that, right?"
“Not if I tell you no, you won't," he snaps, stepping into my space.
The two of us are at such opposing ends right now—me, flustered and flour-covered, and him, looking as if he just stepped out of a men's fashion catalog.
He's gorgeous and cold, and I want to throw this dough and muss his perfect hair.
"So this is how you’ll play it? You’ll be nice for a couple of days, a couple of weeks, and then all of a sudden, you’re just going to snap and try controlling me?
" I blow out a breath. “I am not a pawn in one of your chess games, Semyon! You can’t just toss me aside before someone else calls checkmate. You should know that."
He stops. Stares as if baffled. Does he really have no idea how I’d feel about him storming in here and critiquing my bakery, the one I’ve kept together by the skin of my teeth? “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I look at him, incredulous, trying to remind myself that he doesn’t understand—but he's a grown adult. He should know exactly what's up.
"You heard me. I said I'm not one of your pawns.” Even as I say it, a part of me wishes he’d push back because I want to feel him.
I want him pushing me against the wall and taking control back.
I want his hand around my throat, a reminder of what he can do to me.
I want all of it, and I don't understand why I want so many conflicting things at once.
He's too close to me. There's a magnetic pull drawing the two of us together, one I can’t resist any more than he can.
"Is that right?" he says, hands on hips. "You want me to leave you alone, stop controlling things? You want me to walk out and leave you to this, don't you? Tell me, Anya. How’d that work for you before?”
My cheeks flush pink as I press my lips into a thin line.
“Tell me to walk away, and I’ll leave you right here to do whatever the hell you need to do with that fucking bread."
He can’t hide the scorn in his voice, and I can’t hide the heat rising in my chest.
"I thought you liked it when I took control," he says with a smug smirk that makes me want to smack him.
"Not with everything." I can’t remove the petulant tone in my voice, but he should know this. I don’t care if he needs people to explain things to him. This is basic common decency. This was my family home. My mother started this.
"Makes perfect sense," he says with chilling precision. "Run the bakery into the ground. Go out of business. That’s an excellent way to honor your mother."
Oh the arrogance. Before I know what I’m doing, I do exactly what I imagined—I fling the bread dough straight at his beautiful face. I hit dead center with an accuracy that makes my heart flip in my chest. Bull's-eye.
Semyon watches the dough that falls to the floor with a plop before he bends to pick it up. He tosses it in the garbage and then washes his hands slowly while my heart beats a frantic rhythm in my chest, and I pretend that I didn’t just throw food in his face like a child.
"Do you think your stubborn pride is going to save you?" he asks, his eyes flashing blue fire at me. "You’d rather close the doors of the bakery than admit you need help, wouldn’t you?"
He prowls closer to me. I stand my ground as my heart rate skyrockets. I cling to my apron, my fingers grasping at the edges as if, somehow, this thin piece of fabric is going to save me from him.
Nothing will save me from him. Not my pride. Not my family. Not my sharp tongue or wit. Nothing.
He takes a step forward, boxing me in against the worktable.
"Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t trap me in." The petulance in my tone has softened, but I’m still restless, still simmering with anger. Yet deep down, I can’t deny it—he’s right. I do like it when he takes control. I’ve been holding onto control for so damn long, clinging to it like a buoy.
But now… it’s getting fucking heavy.
"It's not my control you hate,” he says with such quiet conviction it almost shakes me. “You're scared, Anya. Just admit it."
I shove him, my palms pressing hard on either side of his broad shoulders.
It’s meant to say no, to push him away, but he doesn’t budge an inch.
His eyes darken as his strong fingers wrap around my wrists like steel cuffs.
Before I can process it, he spins me, my back hitting the cold steel door of the freezer. My breath catches.
I stay still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing what he does to me. But when his mouth finds my neck and kisses down to my collarbone, his teeth sinking into sensitive skin, I shiver. It’s punishing, a reminder of how easily he can overpower me.
Flour dusts our clothes as we give in to each other. He kisses me, and I'm kissing him back—angry and on fire—but a part of me admits I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to. I know he’s right.
"You might have a point, even if you're an asshole about it," I admit through clenched teeth.
"And you might have a point, even though you're a brat.” He tugs my hair and grips my ass hard before he lifts me, turns, and slides me onto the steel top of the worktable. I lose myself to him. I’m tugging on his shirt, eager to put my palms on the hard planes of his stomach as he’s unfastening and pushing down my pants.
“Leave the apron," he says in a low whisper. "I want the vision of your legs spread for me, your head tipped back while you come, every time I step foot in this fucking bakery."
My cheeks heat, and I smirk at him.
"That's so fucking dirty."
He lifts a shoulder.
“And?”
I shiver when his fingers tighten around my hips, planting me in place.