Chapter 19 #2
“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I used to make it for Igor when we were younger and he got sick.”
My throat tightens at the image of a younger Leonid, caring for his little brother. “You’re sweet,” I murmur.
He snorts, but there’s no real bite to it. “Don’t tell anyone.” He kisses my forehead, lingering.
I shift a little in his arms, the question that’s been hovering in my mind for a while now rising to the surface. I’ve seen his brother a couple of times at school, picking up Alexei. He looks exactly like Leonid. Same dark hair, same eyes, same build, just a few inches shorter.
“I take it that you two are close?”
Leonid’s chest rises on a slow breath. “Yeah, we are.”
I swallow, then ask the part I’ve only read about in passing, the part that made my heart ache when I first looked him up. He was barely a teenager.
“You two grew up without your parents, didn’t you? I… read about what happened.”
His whole body goes rigid beneath me. For a second I think he might not speak at all.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat. “Robbery gone wrong at my parents’ convenience store. They didn’t make it.”
I press my palm to his chest, feeling the quick thud of his heart. “I’m so sorry. So you both grew up in foster homes?”
He exhales through his nose. “Yeah. Bounced around a bit. Igor and I stuck together as much as we could.”
Before I can ask any more questions, he sits up slowly, the sheet pooling at his waist, and rubs a hand over his face. “I’ll go make that breakfast now.”
I catch the shift. He clearly doesn’t want to dig into his past. And I won’t make him. Sad memories like that don’t need prodding. He’ll tell me more when he’s ready.
“So… no soup?” he asks, glancing back at me with a faint, forced lightness.
I shake my head. “Honestly, I don’t even remember what it tasted like last night. I just… don’t want soup.”
He studies me for a beat, then the corner of his mouth quirks. “Pancakes and hot cocoa?”
My smile comes easy this time. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”
“Coming right up.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands, and reaches for his trousers, neatly folded on the chair beside my clothes.
“How did we end up naked?”
He pulls them on, zips up, and smiles. “You were shivering so badly that night, so I figured you needed body heat to warm you up.”
“Oh.” I remember hearing him say that.
“And it worked.” He leans down, kisses my forehead, and heads for the door without a shirt, broad tattooed back flexing as he moves.
The second he’s gone, I push myself up, legs shaky but steadier than before, and pad to the bathroom. After I relieve myself, I finally brave the mirror.
I wince at my reflection. My hair is a wild halo of tangles, face pale and splotchy, eyes puffy, lips chapped. This is what I looked like the whole time he was here? God.
I grab the comb from the drawer, yank it through the knots until my scalp protests, then twist everything into a messy bun. Brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face. I’m still a mess, but at least I don’t look like I’ve been dragged through hell.
Back in bed, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a string of texts and missed calls from Tasha and Leonid.
Hey girl, you okay? Haven’t heard from you since yesterday. Laurel? Call me when you can. Worried.
I send a quick text to Tasha: I’m fine. Just had a nasty fever. Leonid’s here taking care of me. I’ll call you later.
Not long after I hit send on the text to Tasha, the bedroom door opens. Leonid walks in carrying a tray, looking unfairly good in just his trousers, bare chest, and tousled hair.
I push myself up, resting my back against the headboard, pillows propped behind me.
He crosses the room in a few long strides, sets the tray carefully across my lap, and straightens. “Eat slowly,” he says, voice low. “Don’t want you getting sick again.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
I lift the cover off the plate.
Chocolate pancakes, thick, fluffy, still steaming, are stacked neatly. And right beside them, drizzled in thick chocolate syrup across the white porcelain, the words:
Be my girlfriend?
I smile, eyes flying up to his face.
He’s watching me, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one eyebrow raised like he’s waiting for an answer he already knows.
“So?” he prompts.
I bite my lip, fighting the ridiculous grin that wants to take over my whole face. “Well… since you asked so nicely…”
He growls low in his throat. “Ever so cheeky, aren’t you, solnyshko?”
I can’t help it. The smile breaks free. Him here, taking care of me, making me breakfast, spelling out the question like some adorable, overgrown romantic—it’s too much. Sweet. Everything I didn’t know I needed.
My heart squeezes hard, words tumbling out before I can catch them. “I love you.”
The room goes still.
His expression turns to stone. For one terrifying second I think I’ve ruined it.
“Oops,” I whisper, cheeks flaming. “I said that out loud. Uhm, you don’t have to—”
“Say it again.”
I blink. “What?”
“Repeat what you just said.”
“I… love you?”
“No.” He leans in, voice dropping. “Like you said it the first time. Not a question.”
I swallow, heart hammering against my ribs. “I love you.”
He crashes his mouth to mine, fierce, hungry, like he’s been starving for the words. The kiss starts furious, all teeth and need, then slows, turns languid, deep, like he’s savoring every second. His hand cups the back of my head, fingers threading into my messy bun.
Against my lips he murmurs something in Russian, soft, reverent, the syllables rolling off his tongue.
I pull back just enough. “Uh?”
He rests his forehead against mine, breath ragged. “I love you, solynshko.”
Then he kisses me again, slower this time, sweeter, like he’s sealing it. When we break apart, I’m dizzy, smiling so wide it hurts.
He loves me.
And I’ve never felt more like I belong somewhere than I do in this moment, with him.