32. Marla
MARLA
Nick stands near the window staring out at the dark woods, his shoulders tense. Alex leans against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Russ is pacing near the fireplace, his jaw tight.
I'm curled up on the couch wrapped in a blanket, trying not to think about my ex-boyfriend hunting for me or his corrupt father pulling strings behind the scenes. The silence is suffocating.
"Fuck this," Russ says suddenly.
We all look at him.
He crosses to the kitchen and starts yanking open cabinet doors, rummaging through them with increasing determination. Pots clatter and dishes rattle.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Looking for something." He opens another cabinet, then another. "I know you have one somewhere."
"Have what?"
"Aha!" He pulls out an old Bluetooth speaker I'd completely forgotten I owned, holding it up like a trophy. "Found it."
Before I can ask what he's planning, he connects his phone and suddenly loud, energetic Russian music blasts through the cottage. The driving accordion beat and fast tempo make the floor vibrate beneath my feet.
Nick turns from the window, his expression shifting from brooding to disbelief. Alex straightens from the counter, one eyebrow raised.
"What the hell are you doing?" Nick demands.
"We're dancing," Russ announces, crossing to the couch and grabbing my hand. He pulls me up before I can protest. "All of us. Right now."
"Russ, I don't know how to dance to this," I say on a breathless laugh. His excitement is contagious.
"Good. I'll teach you." He spins me toward the open space near the fireplace, his hand warm and solid around mine. "It's a traditional Russian dance. My mother taught me when I was a kid."
"I'm going to be terrible at this," I warn with a slight frown.
"That's the point." He positions my hands, one on his shoulder and one clasped in his. His blond hair falls across his forehead, and his light eyes are bright with mischief. He's wearing dark jeans and a navy sweater that highlights his eyes. "Just follow my lead and try not to fall on your ass."
The music has an infectious rhythm that makes it impossible to stay still. Russ guides me through basic steps with surprising patience. I stumble immediately, stepping on his foot.
"Sorry!"
"Don't apologize. Just move." He grins at me. "Faster. Come on, you can do better than that."
He spins me suddenly, and I yelp as the room blurs around me. When he pulls me back, I'm laughing despite myself.
"You did that on purpose!"
"Maybe." He spins me again, this time even faster, and I shriek with laughter as I crash into his chest. His arms catch me easily, steadying me. "See? You're having fun."
"I'm getting dizzy!"
"That's part of the experience."
From across the room, Alex makes a sound that might be a laugh. "Your form is shit, Russ. You're supposed to keep your shoulders level."
Russ shoots him a look. "Then get over here and show us how it's done, asshole."
"I'm watching."
Russ releases me long enough to gesture at Alex. "Come on. Show Marla how a real Russian dances."
Alex stands with a sigh that suggests he's only humoring us, but when he crosses to the fireplace, there's something almost eager in his movements. He's wearing charcoal slacks and a white button-down, looking far too put together for dancing in the middle of the night.
He holds out his hand to me. "May I?"
Smiling at his uncharacteristic formality, I take his hand, and the difference is immediate.
Where Russ was playful and chaotic, Alex is controlled and precise.
He moves through the steps with fluid grace that comes from years of practice, guiding me effortlessly through turns and patterns I struggle to follow.
"You're really good at this," I say, slightly breathless.
"I had a strict teacher." Alex's hand is firm at my waist, keeping me balanced as we move. "She didn't tolerate mistakes."
"Your mother?"
"My grandmother." Something flickers across his face, there and gone too quickly to read. "She believed every man should know how to dance properly."
Russ watches us from near the fireplace, shaking his head. “Show-off."
"Jealous?" Alex asks without looking at him.
"Of your boring technique? Not even a little."
They trade places after the song ends, and we go through several more rounds.
Russ makes me laugh until my sides hurt with his deliberately exaggerated movements and terrible singing along to the Russian lyrics.
Alex corrects my posture with the patience of someone teaching a combat technique.
The music shifts between fast and slow, traditional and modern, and I find myself relaxing into the rhythm of it.
Nick remains near the window the entire time, arms crossed, watching us with an expression that suggests he thinks we've all lost our minds.
"Nick!" I call during a break between songs. "Your turn!"
"I don't dance."
"Bullshit," Russ says. "Everyone dances."
"I don't."
"Come on." I cross to him, emboldened by the music and the laughter still bubbling in my chest. "Just one song."
"No."
"You're standing there like an angry bodyguard. It's depressing." I grab his hand, tugging gently. "Please? For me?"
His green eyes narrow, but after a long moment, he allows me to pull him toward the fireplace. He moves stiffly at first, clearly uncomfortable, but as the music picks up tempo, something shifts. His movements are economical and controlled, nothing wasted, like he's fighting rather than dancing.
Russ takes one look at Nick's serious expression and completely loses it. He doubles over laughing, actually wheezing, tears streaming down his face. "Holy shit. You look like you're about to murder someone."
"Shut up," Nick growls.
"You're supposed to be having fun, not planning an execution!"
Even Alex cracks a smile at that, and I feel my own laughter building again. Nick shoots Russ a look that probably would terrify most people, but Russ just laughs harder, collapsing onto the couch and gasping for breath.
"I hate both of you," Nick mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.
The dancing eventually dissolves into drinking games and another round of cards, this time with all four of us playing.
We argue about the rules, accuse each other of cheating, and make increasingly ridiculous bets.
At some point, the conversation shifts to food, and Russ declares that American comfort food is garbage compared to Russian cuisine.
"Grilled cheese is a perfectly respectable meal," I argue.
"It's bread and cheese. That's not a meal, that's an insult."
"It's delicious!"
"It's lazy." Russ gestures dramatically. "Real comfort food takes effort and skill."
"Oh, please." I roll my eyes. "You're just being snobby."
Alex stands from the table with a thoughtful expression. "Do you have any ground meat in your fridge?"
"Maybe? Why?"
"I'm making pelmeni."
"You're making what?"
"Russian dumplings." He's already moving toward my kitchen, opening the refrigerator and rummaging through its contents. "You'll see."
I follow him, watching as he pulls out ground beef, an onion, and a few other ingredients I'd forgotten I had. "You're seriously going to cook right now? It's almost midnight."
"The best meals happen after midnight." He finds a mixing bowl and starts working, his brows drawn down in concentration. "Besides, someone needs to show you what real comfort food tastes like."
Russ appears in the doorway, grinning. "Are you really making pelmeni?"
"Someone has to defend our culture."
"I'll help." Russ rolls up his sleeves and joins Alex at the counter. "Marla, watch and learn."
I perch on one of the kitchen stools, fascinated as they work together.
Their hands move in practiced synchronization, mixing, rolling, and folding.
They argue good-naturedly about the proper meat-to-onion ratio and whether the dough is too thick.
Nick eventually joins us, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, but I catch him smiling when he thinks no one is looking.
"Your grilled cheese technique is probably shit, by the way," Russ says at one point, glancing at me. "You're probably burning the bread and leaving the cheese cold in the middle."
"I am not!"
"Prove it."
So I make grilled cheese while they finish the pelmeni, and we end up with a bizarre late-night feast spread across my kitchen counter.
The pelmeni are incredible, savory and rich, served with sour cream and fresh dill Alex found in my refrigerator.
My grilled cheese is perfectly golden and melty, thank you very much.
We eat standing around the kitchen, stealing food off each other's plates and continuing to argue about cooking techniques.
At some point, I realize my face hurts from smiling and my stomach aches from laughing.
The fear and tension that's been suffocating me for days has started to lift, leaving me feeling more at ease than I've felt in... well, perhaps my whole life.
These men are dangerous. They're criminals.
They operate outside the law and do things I probably don't want to know about.
But in this moment, watching Russ steal a bite of Alex's pelmeni and Alex swat his hand away while Nick tries to hide his amusement, they're just three men who've somehow become important to me.
We eventually collapse near the fireplace again, too full and tired to do anything but sprawl across blankets and pillows.
The fire has burned low, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
Russ is on my left, his arm thrown across my waist. Alex is on my right, his breathing already evening out into sleep.
Nick is behind me, solid and warm, one hand resting on my hip.
I feel safe and protected. Like nothing can touch me as long as they're there. An asinine thought, I know, since they could just as easily snap my neck. But I can't help how I feel.
For a few hours, I forget how dangerous they are. I forget about the warehouse attack and the mayor's corruption and Zach hunting for me. I just exist in this moment, warm and content and surrounded by men who make me feel like I matter.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
When I wake in the morning, the cottage is quiet.
Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting soft golden light across the hardwood floors.
I'm alone in the nest of blankets and pillows.
I stretch slowly, my muscles pleasantly sore, and push myself up.
Wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, I pad barefoot into the kitchen to make coffee.
Alex stands at the window above the sink, staring out toward the woods, his hair slightly mussed from sleep. His posture is tense, his jaw tight.
I start the coffee maker, and the sound makes him glance over his shoulder. Something in his expression softens when he sees me.
"Morning," I say quietly.
"Morning."
The coffee brews, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma. I pour two mugs and cross to him, handing him one. He takes it with a nod of thanks.
For a moment, we stand in comfortable silence, sipping our coffee. The morning feels peaceful, almost normal.
"Last night was fun," I say finally.
"It was." Alex's mouth curves into something that's almost a smile. "I haven't danced like that in years."
"You were annoyingly good at it."
He smirks and takes a sip of coffee before focusing his attention on the window again.
I follow his gaze out the window, seeing nothing but trees and morning sunlight shining through the branches.
But his expression has shifted again. The warmth fades, replaced by something darker and more calculating.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
He doesn't answer immediately. His jaw tightens, and his fingers drum once against the counter before going still.
"Alex?"
Without looking away from the window, he says quietly, "I went to tThe Ivory Wolf yesterday and found out the mayor's son has been asking questions about you around town."