I expected her to do something like this when I told her I wanted Olivia to eat at the table tonight. It’s been a while since Irina got to cook a meal she could serve at the table.
I take the knife and carve slices of chicken and serve Olivia first.
“Thank you,” she mutters.
“I heard you were eating,” I state, and she cuts me a glance.
“I’m sure you did. It was the most interesting thing I did today, other than sit on the grass and write.”
I’m not sure if she knows she’s taking that tone with me again.
“What did you write?”
She was writing last night too.
“The plot for my bestselling novel about a Russian mobster who’s a condescending prick.” She’s not looking at me as she speaks. Instead, she’s serving herself vegetables.
The more she talks like that the more my hand inches to meet her ass and repeat last night on this table.
“Sounds good.”
She snaps her gaze to me, and I realize that fear I normally see in her eyes is fading. It’s a mistake she shouldn’t make. She shouldn’t make the other kind either. The one that’s making raw arousal cloud her eyes, overpowering fear.
“What happened to that thing?” she asks, holding my gaze.
Her eyes dart to the passage leading to the study ahead of us and settle on the figurine on the mantel I caught her looking at.
She’s asking a question she shouldn’t ask me, and I think she might know that. I’ll play though, even if the past is something I don’t talk about.
Something compels me to with her.
“It got burned in a fire that killed my wife.”
Sadness fills her gaze, softening her features. “I’m sorry.”
The sentiment seems sincere. “You did your homework on me, so I assume you knew that’s how my wife died.”
“I did. But knowing something and being told it are two different things. One gives allowance to speak, the other does not.”
She’s right. “Did you know my son was alive?”
“No, I didn’t. Do you really think Jude knows where he is?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?” she asks in a meek voice.
“Aleksei.”
“When was he taken?”
My discomfort increases. “Nine years ago. Whoever took him set my house on fire and killed my wife.
Her lips thin and her hands still over her plate. “Why would Jude be involved in that?”
“I don’t know yet.” I’m not sure what else to say. I may be sharing but I don’t want to talk about my mistakes with her. The first reason why Jude did what he did was clearly part of my punishment. I don’t know anything more and voicing what I suspect happened to my son is too painful.
She looks like she’s gearing up to ask me more questions so I think of what I can to stop her in her tracks.