Page 81 of Sinful Blaze

We both hear the front door open. Asya smiles at me knowingly while I start to panic.

“Keep at it, moya docha,” she mutters to me on her way to the cabinets. “I’ll set the table.”

It’s a longer moment than I expect before Pasha appears in the archway of the kitchen. He’s sniffing the air with a growing smile, and my stomach does a little flip.

Will he like it? Will he forgive my lumpy, misshapen interpretation of his favorite food?

The moment he sees his mother in the dining room, he freezes. “Mama? What are you doing here?”

Asya is completely unfazed. “I had to come see the beautiful mother of my grandchild! And give a few pointers for dinner.” She winks at me as she finishes arranging the silverware.

I notice she only grabbed enough for two place settings. “Aren’t you joining us?”

“Thank you, docha, but I have my own plans.” She walks over to me and kisses my cheek. “Besides, you’ll want your alone time.”

For the first time since I’ve met him, Pasha looks completely bewildered.

“Be good, and—” She slaps her son’s chest lightly. “—be good to her. She’s done a marvelous job cooking you a warm meal. The least you can do is be far more accurate when you brag about her next.”

“Moth—”

“Enjoy, moi deti! Call me if you need anything, yes?”

And just like that, Asya Chekhov whirls out of the penthouse and leaves us to each other.

Pasha watches the door closed for a while, breathing softly, before his gaze swings to me. He says nothing, just looming and looking and smelling way more intoxicating than is fair, in my opinion.

He glances into the pan. “Is that…?”

“Pierogies. There’s a side salad ready on the table; I just need to grab the dressing from the fridge.”

He nods and turns to go get it, then changes his mind. “How exactly did you get a hold of my mother?”

“I didn’t. I came home with Viktor and she was just here. Made me tea and fed me cake. Said she wanted to get to know me better sooner rather than later.” I flip another pierogi onto the platter so I won’t have to look at him, though I can still feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of my face. “She also said she has her own key, for emergencies.”

Pasha just stands there for a tense, silent moment. Then, to my surprise, he bursts into laughter. “I should have known better.”

“Did you give her a key?”

“Hell no. She must have slipped a copy from me during my last visit to her place.”

“That sounds…” How do I say it?

Pasha answers for me. “Like the wife of a Bratva pakhan. The widow of one, anyway. If you think I’m tricky, just remember: I learned it from somewhere.” He plucks a dumpling from the platter and takes a bite.

I suck in a breath. Moment of truth.

Pasha’s jaw drops. “Fuck. This is amazing.” He looks at me, and I swear I haven’t seen that gleam in his eyes since the auction. “You made this?”

“I had help. Lots of it.” I blush and my eyes fall to the floor. “But yeah, I made that one. The fancy-looking one is your mom’s.”

He stands there and watches me fry up the last of the dumplings in the butter, holding the platter for me as I set them in. He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know if that is a good thing or if I should be worried.

When the last dumpling is fried up and ready, Pasha takes the platter into the dining room while I untie my apron and wash my hands. I don’t know why, but I feel a nervous flutter in my stomach that isn’t our daughter tap-dancing in my uterus.

The flutter grows stronger when I join him in the dining room. Not only did Asya set the table with the nicest set of plates and silverware, she lit a few candles and turned on some classical music at low volume for ambience.

Someone—not me, but someone, a total third-party stranger who doesn’t know any better—could easily mistake this to be a romantic meal.

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