Page 26 of Perfect Stalker

As we walk away, I catch her muttering something under her breath. “What was that?” I ask, leaning closer.

“I said, you’re bossy and impossible,” she says, shooting me a look.

“And you’re unforgettable,” I say, letting the words linger in the space between us. She doesn’t respond, but the faint curve of her lips tells me she heard me and likes what I said.

We walk on, browsing a few more stalls and buying more random purchases. She stops to linger at a display of handmade jewelry, slanting me a glance. She looks cautious when she says, “Ivan, about that picture I found in the guest room...the one of you as a child. You looked so...different.”

I stiffen, memories of my past flooding back. For a moment, I consider deflecting her question, but something in her eyes makes me reconsider.

“That picture was taken at ‘St. Sergius’s Orphanage,’” I say quietly. “It was...a difficult time.”

Jenny’s expression softens. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I’d like to know more about you if I’m going to stay with you for a bit.”

“Forever,” I say softly, daring her to refute that. She’s wise enough to keep her mouth closed, which leads to me rewarding her with some information. I know so much about her that I suppose it’s only fair if she knows some of my history.

“Was it awful?” she asks gently.

I shake my head. “Not always, but sometimes. The orphanages were cold, both literally and figuratively. We fought for everything—food, clothes, and even a moment of kindness. There were good things too. A couple of close friends, the holidays when rich oligarchs remembered to shower the less fortunate…” I trail off, recalling when Vyacheslav Oglsev was dragged to one such event when I was twelve.

As we move to a quieter corner of the market, I say, “I was thirteen when theBratvaclaimed me. I first came to the attention of Vyacheslav, thepakhanat the time, when I was twelve. He befriended me and saw potential in my survival skills, my ruthlessness, and also in the way I took care of the younger boys at the orphanage.”

Jenny listens intently. “That must have been terrifying for a child.”

I shake my head. “Nyet. It was a relief. For the first time, I belonged somewhere. Had a purpose.”

A moment of silence passes between us. Jenny’s hand reaches out, hesitating before gently touching my arm. The warmth of her touch sends a shiver through me.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Ivan,” she says softly.

Our gazes lock, and the bustling market fades away. I lean in, drawn by an irresistible force. Her breath hitches as her lips part slightly.

Just as I’m about to close the distance between us, she suddenly turns away, her cheeks flushed. “Oh, look at those dried peach slices,” she says, her voice slightly higher than normal. “They look delicious.”

She hurries toward the fruit stall, her movements slightly flustered. Disappointment and amusement fill me. It seems Jenny isn’t quite ready to confront the growing tension between us, but she’s definitely not immune to it.

As I follow her to the stall, I smile. She’s resisting now, but I’m a patient man, and I always get what I want.

I standin the penthouse kitchen, the aroma of sautéing onions and garlic filling the air. The familiar scent transports me back to my teen years, to Lena’s warm kitchen, where I first learned to cook. Jenny moves around me, uncorking a bottle of wine and setting the table. Her presence both soothes and ignites me.

“What are you making?” she asks, leaning against the counter to watch me while I add diced potatoes to the pan.

“Beef Stroganoff.” I stir the ingredients. “It was one of the first dishes Lena taught me.”

Jenny’s eyebrows raise. “Lena?”

I pause, memories flooding back. “Vyacheslav’s wife. She was kind to me.”

Her expression softens. She steps closer, her hand hovering near mine before she pulls back. “Tell me about her?”

I focus on the sizzling pan, gathering my thoughts. “Lena was warmth personified. She took in all the youngbratvamembers without families and taught us more than just how to survive. She taught us how to live. How to mend our clothes, cook, anddo basic adult tasks many of us had never learned, since a lot were orphans.”

As I speak, I add beef to the pan, and the meat sears with a satisfying hiss. “This recipe was her favorite. She’d make it every Sunday, insisting everyone in thebratvawas welcome to come for dinner.”

She nods. “She sounds wonderful.”

“She was,” I say, voice breaking when I add, “Until she wasn’t.”

She frowns. “What happened?”

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