14. I didn’t like that sweater anyway
FOURTEEN
I DIDN’T LIKE THAT SWEATER ANYWAY
“Oh.”
My scowl turns impatient. “Are you going to let me in?”
“Um, sure.” O’Donnelly steps back a pace then shoots a wary look at the staircase. “Do you want me to check—”
“No.”
I head for the stairs and start the short climb.
“Hey! You can’t go up there!”
“Who’ll stop me?”
The cocking of a shotgun is a welcome surprise.
Facing him, I feel a smile crease my lips. “You’re not entirely useless, then.”
“Excuse me?!”
“Max—” Victoria’s head pops over the bannister and she dangles upside down to glare at her housemate. “Shay O’Donnelly! What the hell do you think you’re doing pulling a gun on Maxim? I thought you picked the pen!”
“He came in and barged up the stairs! Anyway, it’s registered!”
“A likely excuse.”
O’Donnelly, offloading the shotgun and stacking it against the wall between a bunch of umbrellas, props his hands on his hips. “You haven’t seen the man in two years—”
“I’ve seen him three times this week.”
“He doesn’t have access to the keycode.”
“I’ll make sure Uncle Conor knows to let him in.”
“How was I supposed to know he was welcome upstairs?”
“You could have asked?”
“Is this an argument anyone’s allowed to join?” I drawl.
“Oh, shut up, you.” She graces me with her attention then discards me. “Shay, Maxim will likely be around the house more than before.”
I grimace, and I know she sees it too because her lips twitch.
Minx.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Have I seen you today? Like, at all?”
“Ever heard of texting?”
She sniffs, drags her cell from somewhere in those minute sleep shorts she’s wearing—I doubt I’d wear such an item of clothing around my platonic housemate, but what do I know?
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” O’Donnelly grouses as his cell buzzes but he rubs his middle finger along his nose. “I’ll just let everybody upstairs then.”
“O’Donnelly was right to draw a weapon on me,” I decide to adjudicate.
“Are you defending him?” Victoria shrieks.
“Look at that. Mr. Mob agrees with me.”
We both ignore him.
“I could have been anyone, koketka.”
“Yeah, but you’re not. You’re you.”
“And we didn’t see one another for quite some time.”
“Sounds like you were wrong, Victoria,” O’Donnelly crows.
“Don’t draw shotguns on my boyfriends.”
“I’m neither your boyfriend nor are there more than one of me.”
She shoots daggers at me with her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I smile at her—what can I say? I enjoy riling her up. “Set a date.”
“A what, now?!” O’Donnelly hollers.
“Oh, shut up, Shay. I’m going to bed.” She sniffs. “And I don’t care if you don’t join me.”
“For the safety of my balls, she means you,” O’Donnelly retorts quickly.
I arch a brow at him. “I managed to piece that together.”
As I restart my climb up the stairs, he calls out, “A date? As in a wedding date?”
I pause. “Yes.”
I climb another step.
“She won’t. Just so you know.”
I turn. “Excuse me?”
“She can scream it until she’s blue in the face that she’s a ‘modern’ woman, but she’s pretty traditional.
Not that I want you to convince my best friend, who’s far too young for you, to marry you, but…
I mean… if you’re going to marry her when she’s way too good for you, then at least do it right. ”
He swallows when I pin him with a look.
The Irish haven’t trained him. That’s clear to see. He’s too easy to read. And as little as I like him, there’s no jealousy in his expression. Just concern.
For his friend.
I concede to his advice with a dip of my chin.
“Good night, Seamus.”
“Shay,” he corrects. "If you’re going to be hanging out around here, I’m just… Shay.”
I ignore him and make it to the landing. Peering around an opened door, I find his bedroom first, then check the others—a pool table?—until I’m left with the fourth and final one, which means they’re separated by two rooms. So she doesn’t hear him fuck if he brings someone home? Is she jealous?
Tapping on it now that I know it’s hers, I wait for her to grumble, “Come in.”
I pop my head around the door and grin when I find her pouting on a love seat. “I can always go back to the city if you don’t want my company.”
Giving me the side-eye, she holds out her hand. I walk past a lot of laundry on the floor—making note of the fact that we may need to increase our staff and that Seamus likely implemented the two-room containment zone—and crouch in front of her.
“You are well, kotik?”
“I’m better,” she admits, her voice softer. “Now.”
If I still had a heart, it would ache.
I rub my thumb over her knuckles. “Bad day?”
“Would you move to Montenegro with me?”
Because she’s scared, I hide my smile. “I would.”
“But you have to commute to New York. How would that work?”
“You’ve been stressing yourself out about this?”
She jerks upright, then paces from the window seat that overlooks the street, past me, and over toward the bed. Meanwhile, I take the opportunity to move onto the couch.
Enjoying this intimate glimpse into her room, I see a person who’s not as put-together as the world thinks.
I see chaos and second thoughts and regrets.
I see a woman who appreciates home comforts and prefers them to the clean lines of minimalism.
I see a lover of unusual art as well as the mundane—a violin is propped up on a dresser.
And I say “propped up” because it looks like it could fall off it at any minute.
My read on her reassures me—instinct told me that she’d like the farmhouse. This confirms it.
“I just don’t understand how you could move to Montenegro?”
“I’d have to change my name.”
She frowns. “What?”
“I couldn’t travel under Maxim Lyanov, and I couldn’t gain residency there through that name, either.”
“Because you’re wanted by Interpol?”
“Can you call yourself a crime boss if you’re not?”
She wafts a hand at me. “Now isn’t the time for posturing.”
“I would retire from the life of a criminal and I’d write a book.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“I’m not actually.”
“What kind of book?”
I tip my head against the comfortable cushions on the love seat. “A cookbook.”
The sound of padding feet precedes her scrambling onto the couch, all long legs on display as—
My eyes widen as she grabs the hem of my sweater, drags it up, then scurries underneath it.
She ignores the creaking of the cashmere seams. “Are you teasing?”
I take in the hamster-shaped bundle under my sweater. “No. I’m not.”
With a sigh, she tucks her arms around my waist and she settles her head on my chest. “What style of cooking?”
“Russian, of course!”
At my faux outrage, she giggles.
And I release a soft breath, knowing she’s calmed down.
“Do you cook?”
“Sometimes.”
“How can you write a book about it if you don’t cook?”
“Because I pay people right now. I wouldn’t if we lived in a shack in Montenegro.”
“Wait, a shack?”
“Does my princess prefer a palace?”
I feel her grin bloom against my shirt-covered pec. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s only right you know your worth.”
Her shoulders straighten some. “Whose recipes, then? They can’t be your own. Not when you don’t cook.”
“Nikolai’s wife, she publishes cookbooks.”
“So, you’re going to plagiarize hers?” she squawks.
“You’re asking for a spanking?”
She tries and fails to pinch my abdomen. “Shut up.”
“I mean, I can…”
“No. Okay. Don’t shut up. Just stop teasing me. Explain. Please.”
“My grandmother raised me. When she died, my life went to absolute shit. I was thrown into an orphanage like an unwanted bag of bones. To go from her love to the barrenness of the children’s home…” I shake my head. “It was difficult to adapt.”
“Oh, Maxim. I’m so sorry.” Her arms threaten to suffocate me, but I accept the hug. “What happened to her?”
“She was old, pchelka. Nothing suspicious about her passing. Nothing suspicious about her. She was a babushka. That meant love was handed out with wooden spoons to the back of the head if I spoke out—”
“That’s where your fantasy for spanking stems from, isn’t it?”
“—and too many potatoes for dinner.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“My father was a miner. He died underground.”
“I’m sorry.”
I just hum. “My mother died in a train crash. Her train collided with a freight train. The fire spread to the passenger cars. It was… not a pleasant death.”
She scoots closer, impossibly close considering the already tight confines of her current location.
I smile blankly at the wall, touched by her need to comfort me.
“They were nice?”
“Yes.”
“How nice?”
“Very. I was… loved. It made things difficult.”
Her hand settles on top of my heart. She doesn’t recall it’s right above where she cut me yesterday. The slight pressure doesn’t hurt, but it grounds me.
“And you remember your grandmother’s cooking?”
“I do. It would be a small cookbook. Mostly potato based.” At her snicker, I ask, “And how would you spend your days?”
“Knitting.”
“Ah, of course. Knitting.”
“We could have chickens.”
“We could.”
“And a cow. You’d have to kill it though.”
My lips quirk. “I think I could cope.”
“We couldn’t name it.”
“No. If you name them, you grow close to them.”
“Right. Sounds… nice.”
“Peaceful. But you will not need Montenegro, kotik.”
“A part of me wishes I did.”
“You’re scared?”
“Of their power, yes.”
I think about what Harrington shared today and I can’t deny that she’s right to be worried. Worse still—that they attacked him and he had no idea why he was being punished.
Disloyal sons of bitches.
“Do you want to join with their power or disassemble it?”
“I want change.”
“You can orchestrate it with the Veronians.”
“Exactly.”
I lift a hand and stroke it over her back. “We need to talk about the other woman at the ceremony.”
She tenses. “Wynter?”
“Da.”
“What about her?”
“Women are invited to pledge only so that they can become one of the future brothers’ arm candy.”
She gasps. “That’s why our invitations are different!”
“Yes. You killed your intended.”
Victoria shudders. “They wanted me with him?!”
“Well, according to Harrington, yes. But Dyers was sniffing around you too,” I point out. “So I’m not entirely sure.”
“Lucky me,” she gripes. “Wynter told me today that she kneed Dyers in the balls.”
“Good for her.”