36. Natalia

36

NATALIA

"Did he hurt you?"

Misha snorts. "I can take that old man any day."

I push the plate of roast beef and potatoes towards him. "I was talking about Remi."

"Oh." He eyes the meat with obvious hunger, but doesn't touch it. He turns his attention to the torn sleeve of his forearm instead. "I'll survive."

I can't help marvel at how quickly he shook off the shock of his attack—by both man and dog.

"You're not hungry?"

He stares at me. "Who are you?"

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this kid isn't an average teenager. He's got all the signs of a child who's had to grow up fast. His every muscle is tense and rigid.

"My name is Natalia. I live in the pool house."

"Why?"

I put my hand on my slightly protruding belly. "Because I'm going to have a baby and I've been told it's the safest place for me."

"Told by whom?" he asks shrewdly.

"Men who think they know better than me." I sound as resentful as he does.

"Let me guess: Andrey Kuznetsov?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Maybe."

Misha eyes my stomach with something resembling wariness. "Is it his baby you're having?"

This conversation is making me more than a little bit uncomfortable. But I figure, if he's smart enough to ask the question, then he's mature enough to hear the answer.

"Yes. It is."

"Then I feel sorry for you," he declares suddenly.

I pull my own plate closer, taking a bite. When I look up, he's still watching me. "It's rude to let a pregnant woman eat alone, you know."

He waits another few moments before he caves and spears a piece of roast beef with his fork.

His eyes flutter on the first bite. The second and third go down even faster. By the fourth, he's holding the plate up to his mouth and shoveling food directly in.

The more I observe him, the angrier I get.

His clothes aren't threadbare, but they're not exactly clean, either. His arms and legs are covered in scratches, wounds, and scars, not all of them healed. And he's jumpy, like he's scared of the very men who claim to want to keep me safe.

It doesn't make sense.

Doesn't it, though? These are dangerous men playing dangerous games.

The shuffling of feet in the hallway has Misha dropping his fork loudly and twisting around. Yelena enters, carrying a heaping pile of laundry.

Her cool gaze falls on me first. Then Misha.

She doesn't say a word, but I hear a low hiss escape her throat as she storms past the kitchen to the laundry room without another word.

Strange.

"So, Misha," I say, ignoring the little interruption, "what would you say to spending the evening with Remi and me? You don't have to worry about him anymore. He's a big softie once you get to know him."

Misha eyes Remi, who's frolicking around in the gardens outside of the window, snapping at passing butterflies. "I'm not supposed to leave my room," he mutters.

"Says who?"

His eyes fall to my belly. "Everyone."

I wave away his worry. "You let me deal with ‘everyone.' So what do you?—"

The sound of heavier footsteps sends Misha springing to his feet. I follow suit and, acting on some instinct I don't have any idea how to explain, I slide in front of Misha just before Andrey enters.

He freezes at the sight of us, his eyes flickering from my face to Misha's.

"What's going on here?"

"What does it look like?" I counter. "We're having lunch."

It's been a while since I saw that much ice in his gaze. For some reason, it ignites something in me that gives me the courage to stand a little taller.

"And then Misha's gonna come and hang out with Remi and me in the pool house."

Andrey's scowl is as terrifying as it is puzzling. "Like hell he is."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so. That's why."

I glare at him for a moment. Then I call out, "Remi!"

My furry protector zooms into the kitchen from the garden, looking delighted to be summoned.

Someone who doesn't look quite so delighted? The impossibly tall, dark-haired Adonis standing in front of me.

Bet he's regretting the gift now, I think with wicked satisfaction.

"You want to get to him, you're going to have to go through Remi and me," I announce firmly. "I'm not about to let you hurt him."

"I'm not planning on hurting anyone," he says. "I'm just going to show him back to his room where he belongs."

I glance over at Misha. His face gives nothing away. "He needs a change of scenery."

"Natalia." Andrey's voice is hard and impatient. "This doesn't concern you."

"Yeah, well, there are parts of my life that don't concern you, either. Doesn't stop you from getting involved, does it?"

His jaw clenches and he takes a step closer, but Remi bursts into fresh growls, forcing him to a standstill.

I'm not gonna lie—this is fun.

Andrey seems to realize that reasoning with me is the only way he's gonna make some headway. He sighs. "You don't understand, but allow me to explain."

"Go ahead.

His eyes shift to Misha. "Not here."

"Alright then. We'll talk in the pool house. We were headed there, anyway."

Andrey fixes me with a sharp gaze that promises retribution for my current sass. "Let me first show Misha back to his?—"

"No."

"Natalia," he bites out, "I don't trust him."

"He's just a boy, Andrey."

"I am not," Misha insists from just behind my shoulder. "I'm fourteen!"

"Regardless, I think he can be trusted to walk around the gardens by himself. What are you afraid he'll do?" I demand. "Pull out your begonias?"

One corner of Andrey's mouth twitches upwards. "I wouldn't put it past him. And since I am fond of my begonias, I'll have Shura keep an eye on him while we head to the pool house."

"Why bother Shura when Remi's right here? I didn't finish walking him anyway." I bend down and pat Remi between the ears. "Misha, you don't mind walking Remi for me while Andrey and I talk, do you?"

Misha stares at the dog uncertainly. "Er…"

"Don't worry; he won't attack you again." I call Remi forward and have him sniff Misha's hand. "You can pet him if you want."

After a few tentative pats, Misha relaxes and so does Remi. I fasten Remi's leash onto his collar and pass it to the reluctant teenager.

"Are you sure?"

I gesture towards the gardens. "Go enjoy the fresh air."

Remi gives me a backward glance as Misha guides him nervously towards the French doors.

Without waiting to see what Andrey thinks of my plan, I charge ahead towards the pool house. It might technically be his property, but it no longer feels that way. It feels like my space now—and I intend to use that to my advantage.

Neither one of us says a word until the door to the pool house is shut tight.

"So," I ask congenially, "you wanna tell me why you've kidnapped a fourteen-year-old boy?"

Andrey runs a hand through his windswept hair. "He may look like a kid, but he's a spy, Natalia."

I snort. "Give me a break."

"You already know I have my enemies."

"Are all of your enemies in middle school?"

He narrows his eyes. "Nikolai Rostov sent Misha to spy on me."

"Nikolai uses child soldiers, so you decide to kidnap them? The high road must have been under construction." Andrey's eyebrows rise, but he says nothing, so I press on. "Why on earth are you keeping him here?"

"I can't very well let him go," Andrey sighs. "He knows too much."

I spread my hands wide. "Andrey, do you hear yourself? We're talking about a boy. A fourteen-year-old, whose arms and legs are covered in scars!"

"That was not my doing."

"I didn't say it was," I clarify. "I'm saying that he's been through enough without the adults in the room looking at him like the perpetrator instead of the victim!"

"He's not some run-of-the-mill teenager, lastochka ?—"

"I know that! Which is why he needs more attention, not less. He needs to be able to talk to someone."

"I have tried to get him to talk," he grits out. "He's remained stubbornly silent."

"Were you trying to talk to him?" I accuse. "Or were you trying to interrogate him? I'm not sure you're aware of the difference, but it's a pretty big one for us normal people."

Again, I think I see the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. But when he speaks, there's no trace of amusement in his tone. "This is Bratva business, Natalia. This doesn't?—"

"Yeah, yeah. Nothing concerns me. You've made that clear a billion fucking times." I huff out a sigh. "I'm not asking you to let him go. All I'm asking is that he be allowed some freedom."

"Freedom to spend time with you, you mean?" Andrey asks shrewdly.

I shrug. "Would that be so bad? He needs company. And, come to think of it, so do I."

"You certainly have a habit of collecting strays, don't you?" he remarks as he moves towards the door. "You've already got a dog to train, lastochka . You don't need another."

"Andrey!"

He stops abruptly and turns to me with arched eyebrows and a pained look on his face.

"What is it about me that makes it so hard for you to listen?" Before he can answer, before I can lose my nerve, I walk right up to him, painfully conscious that my breathing is racing as hard as my heart is. "Apparently," I continue, "the only time I can make you listen is when sex is involved. So, if that's what it takes… fine."

His carefully controlled mask slips for a moment. I register a kernel of confusion; he has no idea where I'm going with this.

But a second later—when I lower myself to my knees in front of him—it can't be any clearer.