By the time Pavel disappears into the kitchen and emerges with a tea tray and a three-tier, candle-studded cake, I’m laughing so hard I’m convinced I’ve managed to get drunk despite my precautions. Nikolai out to amuse is not something I’ve seen before, and I have no defense against his dry, witty charm. Neither does anyone else at the table, it seems. Slava, hopped up on sugar and adult merriment, forgets all about keeping his distance from his father and climbs on his lap, while Alina drunkenly loops her arm around Nikolai’s neck and gives him a big smooch, leaving a lipstick imprint on his cheek—the first time I’ve seen her act like a playful younger sister.
It makes me realize how reserved she and everyone else in this household usually are, how little of a normal family dynamic I’ve seen between them.
The realization brings me back to my senses, reawakening my caution, but then Alina blows out the candles among loud cheers and I forget that I’m not at a typical birthday celebration, that the gorgeous, sharply dressed man laughing with his family is as much my captor as my protector.
Nikolai is dangerous, and not just because I’ve seen him kill with my own eyes.
It’s because he’s so much more complex than a man without a conscience should be.
As I observe him closer, I realize that unlike everyone else, he doesn’t seem drunk. There’s a certain calculated quality to his laughter and jokes, to the charming, light-hearted façade he’s assumed. It makes me recall Alina’s assertion that her brother does nothing by accident, that all his actions are planned.
Still, even this can’t keep my heart from squeezing with tenderness when I notice the genuine softness in his eyes as he carefully embraces his son—who’s now giggling and bouncing on his lap while chattering away in Russian. I catch the word “Papa” in the rapid stream of words, and my chest swells with an emotion so intense tears prickle behind my eyelids.
Daddy, Slava called him in Russian, unprompted.
They’re finally bonding as father and son.
Blinking back the burning moisture, I look down at my half-eaten dessert—only to feel the back of my neck tingle with familiar awareness. Sure enough, when I glance up, Nikolai’s gaze is trained on me, his tiger eyes filled with unnerving intensity.
I was right. He’s not drunk in the least. If anything, the alcohol has made him sharper, more focused.
“You don’t like the cake, zaychik?” he murmurs, his voice too low to carry to the rest of the table, where Pavel and Lyudmila are loudly toasting Alina yet again. “Or are you simply too full?”
My face warms. Why does that simple question feel like a sexual innuendo? It shouldn’t, not even with that seductive, intimate edge to his tone.
He’s holding his son, for fuck’s sake.
“I’m stuffed,” I say, only to immediately want to take the words back as his mouth curls in a wicked half-smile.
It’s Slava who comes to my rescue. “Daddy,” he says loudly in English, twisting his little body to wrap his arms around Nikolai’s neck. “My daddy.”
Nikolai’s gaze shifts to his son, and the wicked gleam in his eyes disappears, replaced by an expression so achingly tender my heart all but dissolves in my chest. This is so much more than the child casually dropping a “Papa.”
Slava is officially claiming Nikolai as his father, embracing him with all the possessiveness in his little Molotov heart.
I force the words out through the growing lump in my throat. “Yes, darling. That’s your daddy. Good job.” The stupid tears are back to burning my eyelids, and I realize my joy at witnessing this is bittersweet, tinged with envy.
As a child, I dreamed of meeting my father—and embracing him exactly this way.
Fortunately, Nikolai is not looking at me. All his attention is on his son. Murmuring something in Russian, he gently smooths back Slava’s hair… and my throat threatens to close completely as I catch a tiny tremor in his strong, callused hand.
What I’m seeing on Nikolai’s face is just the tip of the emotional iceberg. The powerful, ruthless man in front of me is completely undone by his son.
Swallowing thickly, I force myself to look away before I also come undone. It’s bad enough my body melts for him; now my heart is joining in as well. There’s no way I can label him a psychopath going forward, no way for me to pretend that the ruthless killer I’ve fallen for is incapable of genuine emotions.
Whatever Nikolai might or might not feel for me, he’s deeply in love with his young son.
17
Chloe
The dinner party lasts late into the evening, so I don’t get a chance to hang out with Alina afterward. By the time Nikolai carries me up to my room and helps me shower and change, I’m so drunk and exhausted I all but pass out in his arms.