Page 104 of Emerald Malice

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.”

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