15. Chapter 15

15

Clara

“ Y ou need proper clothes.”

Leonid’s voice is a low rumble, rolling through the air like a heavyweight boxer stepping into the ring. And if that wasn’t disorienting enough, a whiff of his cologne hits me—a blend of Cedar and testosterone that’s somehow designed to make me forget my own damn name.

“Both of you.”

“What?” I’m still staring at the fucking peacock parade, my brain short-circuiting between “he didn’t kill Jake” and “why does the Russian mob have birds?”

A blur of iridescent blue and green feathers swoops past my face, and I duck, yanking myself down so fast my knees almost buckle.

“Shit—!” My heart pounds, and I twist sideways, arms flailing to keep myself upright. The damn bird clips me with its wing, throwing me off balance.

“Ahhh!”

I jolt like someone yanked the rug out from under me, letting out a squeal that could make a pig blush.

“AHHhhh!”

“AhHHhh!”

“Ahhh!” My voice echoes off the glass ceiling, and suddenly, two peacocks join in, squawking in startled harmony.

“REEE-yaaah! REEE-yaaah!”

“REE-yaah!”

“REE-yaah!”

“Mother fu— udgesicles !” A swirl of green and blue swoops at my head. Again. Because apparently, one near-death experience isn’t enough for these feathered demons.

I try to duck, but my feet tangle. The stone path rushes up to meet my face and—

A firm arm snakes around my waist, yanking me back against a solid chest.

“Careful,” Leonid says from behind me, his voice low and way too close to my ear. My breath catches, every nerve in my body crackling with awareness. His grip is strong, steadying me as the chaos around us seems to fade for a moment.

Maksim coughs—the kind that sounds more like choking on laughter.

I spin away from Leonid’s chest, twisting around to face him.

That fucking smirk.

“You scream like a—” His mouth quirks up. “ Girl .”

“Oh, no! You didn’t just—” The words die in my throat as the scent of bacon and maple syrup punch through the air. Fuck my traitorous stomach for growling right when I’m about to tell him exactly which body part he can choke on.

“Food’s ready!” Kayla appears through one of the side doors, carrying a tray laden with plates of food. She moves gracefully, setting the tray down on the long wooden table that’s been artfully placed in the middle of the glasshouse.

Like this is some family brunch instead of a hostage situation.

“Sit.” Leonid’s hand lands firmly on my lower back, guiding me to a chair. My legs give out before I can think twice.

This is fucked up. All of it.

Elijah scrambles into the chair next to me, face flushed with excitement.

“Mama, look. A colorful feather.” He holds it out, and the iridescent greens and blues shimmer under the morning light, catching like tiny shards of precious stones.

I reach for it. “Baby, we shouldn’t—” I open my mouth, about to tell him it’s not nice to pluck feathers from the birds when Leonid sits down beside me.

Grabs a plate. Adds a pancake, dumps blueberries on top, shoves it in front of me.

“Eat,” he says, then turns to Elijah. “You too.”

“Okay, Meowth.” He nods and stands on his chair, arms stretched high, trying to reach the pancake plate.

Leonid reaches over and helps him, guiding the plate closer. Elijah beams up at him.

“Thank you!” he chirps before sitting back down, clutching his fork with both hands to attack his pancakes.

“I’m not Meowth, kid,” he mutters, suppressing a cough. “I’m Leonid.”

“Or the boss ,” Maksim adds. I glare at him, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. He keeps glancing between the three of us—Leonid, Elijah, and me—with an expression that makes my skin prickle, like he’s savoring some inside joke at my expense.

The scene feels wrong, twisted, like I’ve stumbled into an alternate universe.

Fuck. This is too much like a family breakfast. A family that doesn’t exist.

A family that can’t exist.

Leonid doesn’t know that the little boy sitting at the table is his son, and I intend to keep it that way.

Elijah, oblivious, shoves more syrup-soaked pancakes into his mouth, the mess spreading across his face.

“Mommy, look!” He waves a piece of pancake triumphantly before sliding down from his chair, too curious to stay seated. He runs toward the peacocks, laughter ringing through the glasshouse.

I tense, wanting to get up, to pull him back to safety. But Leonid’s hand closes over mine, pinning me in place. His grip is strong, commanding, and I have to fight the urge to pull away.

“Stay,” he orders, voice low, and my heart skips, even though I hate how he affects me. His hand stays on mine for a moment too long, and the touch sends unwanted sparks of awareness shooting up my arm.

I twist my head to glare at him, but his focus is already on Dmitry. The massive man rises, his eyes briefly meeting Leonid’s before he makes his way to where Elijah is playing. My stomach twists. I don’t trust any of them, no matter how gentle Dmitry acts around my son.

Leonid notices my reaction. “Elijah’s safe,” he says, and there’s something unreadable in his gaze. “But Mitch…” His voice turns calculating, almost casual, and a sense of dread washes over me. “He’s not as lucky.”

The fork slips from my fingers, clattering onto the plate. The sound is too loud, slicing through the moment, and I can’t hide the way my body stiffens.

Mitch.

“What about Mitch?” I hiss at him, but panic wells up in my throat.

Leonid leans in.

“We have him.” He grabs a blueberry. Pops it in his mouth. Crushes it.

He picks up another blueberry, rolling it between his fingers. “Behave, and I’ll take you to him.” The berry vanishes between his teeth with a soft crunch.