12. Chapter 12

12

Leonid

Four hours earlier

T his morning has gone completely off plan.

I didn’t sleep much, but at least I slept. Barely enough to keep me from losing it.

I’m used to quiet.

Dead silence. But instead, I wake up to the sound of a kid’s voice over the CC TV screen.

Singing. Off-key and cheerful.

Der’mo.

I scrub a hand over my face, pushing the irritation away. I’ve dealt with cartel bosses, corrupt politicians, and worse, yet here I am, rattled by a 4-year-old’s morning song.

Fuck.

The camera shows their room, and there he is—Elijah, wide awake and entertaining himself with some children’s song while his mother sleeps.

Why the hell is he awake so early? Damn kid can’t even sleep in like a normal human being.

I should turn off the fucking feed.

That’s what a normal person would do—not sit here at six in the morning, watching some kid’s solo concert through security cameras like a creep.

Instead, I drag myself to the shower, cranking the water hot enough to scald. Let it pummel my muscles, trying to wash away twelve hours of surveillance footage. Of watching her sleep. Of wondering if she dreams about killing me.

My head spins with plans, deals, loose ends that need tying. Mitch still needs breaking. Three shipments need routing. The Italians want answers.

But it keeps drifting back to her. To Clara.

And her kid.

Clenching my jaw, I shake it off and finish the shower. I dry off quickly, tossing on a black shirt and cargo pants. Practical. Time to handle this.

Walking out of my room, I head down the hallway, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. Reaching their door, I twist the handle and unlock it. It swings open smoothly.

“Hi.”

I nearly jump out of my skin. The soft little voice catches me so off guard that my hand jerks back from the door like I touched a live wire. Elijah’s head pops out, curls sticking in every direction, eyes bright and wide— too damn similar to mine. Those deep brown eyes. My eyes.

No. Stop it. There’s no fucking way.

I force myself to swallow down the thought, to ignore the resemblance gnawing at my gut like a goddamn parasite.

“Uh…” I grunt, trying to remember what the hell I was supposed to say. This is Clara’s kid . The brat. But right now, he’s standing there looking at me like I’m not the bad guy keeping them prisoner. Like I’m just… someone he trusts.

Then, without hesitation, his hand reaches out, fingers brushing against mine before curling around my palm. The contact jolts me, like I’ve been hit by something I didn’t see coming. His hand is so small, soft, and fragile, like something I could crush with barely any pressure.

I freeze.

How can something this tiny fit in my palm and shock me like this?

My throat tightens.

For a second, I just stare down at where our hands are joined, his trust weighing heavier than anything I’ve ever held. It’s unsettling. Foreign. But he’s looking at me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Before I can react, Elijah lets go, darting down the hallway with a burst of energy. I follow his gaze, and there, lying against the wall just outside the door is the ugly yellow toy plush thing .

“Pikachu!”

The kid’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas. His little feet move faster than I can register, and in an instant, he’s scooping up the plush, hugging it like it’s a damn treasure.

“Pikachu! You found him!” Elijah turns to me with pure joy, running back toward me.

I stare down at the yellow toy, and for a split second, my brain goes blank.

Then he looks up at me.

“Thank you!” He beams, assuming I’m the one responsible. And then it happens.

The kid hugs me.

Full-on, arms-wrapped, face-pressed-into-my-leg hug.

I freeze.

What the hell?

The warmth of his small body presses against me for a moment too long, and I stand there like a statue, unsure of what the fuck I’m supposed to do with this. Hug him back? Shove him off?

Instead, he pulls away, clutching Pikachu to his chest, beaming like I’m some kind of hero.

“Did you bring him back for me, Bad Guy Meowth?” Elijah looks up at me, all innocent trust. His fingers clutch the stuffed toy as if it’s a trophy.

I frown. Meowth?

I narrow my eyes, “I’m not… Meowth.” I rub a hand over my face again. “And I sure as hell didn’t bring back your toy.”

Elijah tilts his head as if that little detail doesn’t even matter and just grabs my hand with his other free hand.

“I’m hungry,” he says, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he hasn’t been locked in a room all night. Like I didn’t kidnap him and his mother.

I stare down at the tiny fingers wrapped around mine.

Something shifts, like a crack in armor I didn’t know I had. Damn kid. Not the reaction I should be having. Definitely not.

“Let’s go,” I mutter, mostly to myself, and start walking down the hallway, dragging the kid with me.

He skips alongside me, no fear, no hesitation.

Current

Her face stops me cold first.

Flushed from sleep, a strand of hair sticking to her cheek. She looks different. Younger, like all the fight’s drained out of her, leaving something raw behind.

Govno.

I didn’t expect this; didn’t expect to see her like this—so exposed. My eyes trace the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes flutter as she stirs.

Raw. Real. And fucking gorgeous.

Enough. My grip tightens around the cup before I push the coffee across the marble counter.

Clara peels her face off the counter, hair a wild mess around her shoulders.

No makeup.

No weapons.

Just her, stripped bare of everything except that oversized shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder.

My shirt. Suka blyad’.

She takes the coffee without looking at me, and there’s something so carelessly intimate about the way she wraps both hands around the mug like we do this every morning. Like I’m not the man she came to kill.

A yawn catches her off guard, and when she notices me staring, she doesn’t blush or look away like most would. Instead, her lips curl into that familiar fuck-you smirk. Even half-asleep, she’s ready for war.

“Take a picture, Kuznetsov. It’ll last longer.”

My jaw clenches.

Who would have thought I’d have Red —Clara Caldwell—sitting in my kitchen, head tilted sideways on the counter like she’s given up all pretense? The hellcat who took down three of my men, now watching her son make pancakes with the Siberian Slaughterer.

She catches Maksim’s lingering gaze on her bare legs, and something dark twists in my gut. Before I can stop myself, I step closer, deliberately crowding her space. Mine . The thought comes unbidden, unwanted.

“You always let your victims get this close?” she murmurs, not bothering to move away. Her breath catches when my hand finds the small of her back again.

“Only the ones I plan to keep.”

The words slip out before I can catch them. Her eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, the air between us crackles with something that has nothing to do with hatred.

“Dmitry! Can I flip another one?” Elijah’s voice breaks whatever spell is building.

Clara’s attention shifts to her son, and I watch the transformation. The softness that creeps into her eyes. The way her fingers relax around the mug. Even the slight upturn of her lips—a real smile, not the sharp ones she saves for me.

It’s like watching a tiger turn into a house cat. Except I know better. The tiger’s still there, just waiting.

“This is temporary,” she says quietly, but her eyes stay on Elijah. “Whatever game you’re playing.”

“Is it?” I lean closer, letting my breath stir the hair by her ear. She shivers. “Tell me something, Clara. When you dream about killing me, is it always with a knife? Or do you get creative?”

She turns her head slightly, and suddenly, we’re breathing the same air. Too close. Her lips curve into something wicked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Maksim’s low whistle cuts through the moment. His eyes are still on Clara’s legs, and something in me snaps.

I grab her elbow, gentle but firm. “Time for you to change.”

“I’m not done with my coffee,” she protests, but I’m already pulling her to her feet.

“You are now.”

“Mommy?” Elijah calls out.

“Just getting dressed, baby!” She manages to sound perfectly calm despite my grip on her arm. “Keep making those awesome pancakes!”

I guide her toward the elevator, very aware of the warm skin under my palm, the way she has to quicken her steps to match my stride.

“Possessive much?” she mutters as the doors slide closed.

I turn her to face me, backing her against the mirrored wall. “You have no idea.”

The elevator starts to rise, and I watch her pulse jump in her throat. Not from fear—never fear with her. Something else. Something that makes this game we’re playing far more dangerous than simple revenge.

“I hate you,” she whispers, but her pupils are blown wide, and she’s not pulling away.

“Good.” I lean closer, letting her feel every inch of height I have on her. “Hate’s honest. Hate, I can work with.”

The elevator dings for our floor, and I step back, releasing her. She stays frozen for a moment, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Change,” I order, voice rough. “And Clara?”

She pauses in the doorway, that damn shirt still sliding off her shoulder.

“Next time you want to wander around my house half-naked…” I let my eyes drag over her bare legs one last time. “Remember who you’re dealing with.”

Her laugh is all smoke and promises. “Or what, Kuznetsov?”

The doors close before I can answer, but it doesn’t matter.

We both know this isn’t over.