Page 92 of Stay Toxic

“Are you going to come give your favorite uncle a hug,Pchelka?” I asked.

My little bee.

She’d always struck me as a little ray of sunshine, just like her mama, and I’d given her the nickname of little bee, and hadn’t changed it since she was born.

She took a quick look around, realized that she was surrounded by three people that would protect her with their lives, and made a dash toward me.

Once she was in my arms, I buried my face into her neck and pretended to eat it.

She squealed and threw her arms around my head, squeezing me for all she had.

I laughed and stood up with her in my arms. “PJs,Pchelka?”

“Mama said by the time we get back, it’ll be bedtime.” She frowned. “Can I stay with you?”

I looked at her parents, who were both laughing and staring at each other, and then back to her. “I guess that would be up to your parents. But I don’t have your car seat in my car.”

“We can take Mama’s,” she declared as if she had that right as such a little person.

“You know your mama hates taking those things out of her car,” I pointed out.

“Daddy is here, though. He’d do anything for her,” Lola pointed out.

My Lola.

She was right, though.

I’d witnessed Auden protect my sister with his life.

Of course he’d do this small task.

“How about we talk about it after dinner,” I said. “Would you like to meet myKisa?”

“Kitten?” Lola asked.

Lola knew some Russian.

I’d been speaking it with her since she was born.

She’d been working on her Russian with her Aunt Bindi as well, who was a language expert.

Bindi was the wife of one of Auden’s brothers.

Honestly, for almost four years old, Lola had great recall and was almost as fluent in Russian as Dima was.

We’d all been taught Russian from a young age. But after Maven had disappeared, Mom had refused to speak it with us, and Dad had gone along with it because he’d do anything for my mom. What Russian we’d been able to retain had been minimal the younger the siblings got.

Dima was barely fluent in it.

Milena wasn’t much better.

“Her name is actually Brecken,” I said as I felt something slimy start to leak down my arm.

I was afraid to look.

“Please tell me I don’t have fresh breastmilk all over me again,” I pleaded, turning to my sister who was snickering.

“Listen, Shasha,” she said. “The kid can’t handle his drink.”

---