Page 51 of Heart of Frost and Scars

He strides toward us with a sense of purpose, chin held high, his gait ceremonious and deliberate.

“You must be Leonid, Monty’s nephew.” He bows his head in a formal gesture, his silver hair meticulously combed back from a stern brow.

My eyes narrow. He knows who I am?

“I’m Oliver.” His voice carries a faint accent, tinged with an old-world courtesy that feels out of place. “I’m responsible for making Monty eat, though I’ve done a terrible job as of late.” He gives Monty’s thin frame a disapproving once-over.

The man’s tailored navy suit seems too courtly for the casual setting. A gold watch chain peeks from his vest pocket, glinting in the early light.

Weird.

“Are you the butler?” I ask.

“The chef.” He sniffs. “Would you like coffee? Juice? Something to eat?”

“Sure. Coffee, food, and…” I flick a hand at the whiskey. “Some of that.”

“I think we’re finished with that.” With lightning speed, Oliver snatches the bottle before Monty can stop him. Stepping out of reach, he continues as if he didn’t just cut off his employer’s drinking. “Will Frankie and Kodiak be joining you?”

“In a while.” I glance back at Monty, whose glare hasn’t softened.

“Any food allergies or special diets, Leonid?” Oliver’s pronunciation of my name is a bit too precise in that accent, hinting at a past that likely began in Russia.

“It’s Leo. And I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.”

“Very well.” He shoots Monty another glower before marching back into the house.

I shift, making the chair groan. “I get the feeling your chef spits in your food.”

“He’s a pompous old prick who doesn’t know his place.”

“Why don’t you fire him?”

“He makes the best Eggs Benedict in Alaska.”

“Or could it have something to do with his history with your family?”

Monty’s head snaps up, eyes wide, before he quickly refastens the scowl. “Our family.”

“Sure. Your father. My grandfather. Whatever. Oliver worked for Rurik.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The accent.”

“His accent is too subtle for the untrained ear.” He absently traces the rim of his cup, studying me.

“I heard it.”

“Denver trained you well. Did he teach you Russian?”

“He didn’t know Russian.”

“Yes, he did. We were both taught at a young age.”

“Well, he kept that from us. Nothing new there. What’s Oliver’s story?”

He adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, a peculiar habit that surfaces whenever he’s stalling. “Oliver was Rurik’s butler in Russia.” His gaze darts to the back door. “When my father fled to America, I was an infant, and he never spoke to Oliver again.”

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