Page 57 of Carved in Ruin

I clench my teeth, hating how his command sends an unwanted thrill racing through me. “Povtorit’,” I repeat, stumbling over the pronunciation.

He smirks, the kind of smirk that makes me want to hurl the textbook at his head. “Again.”

We go on like this, him correcting my every mistake, leaning in so close I can feel his breath against my skin. The scent of him, dark, masculine, and infuriatingly intoxicating, fills the small space between us.

Finally, I drop the pencil and glare at him. “Why do half your words sound like threats?”

He chuckles. “Because in Russian, even poetry can sound like a death sentence.”

I roll my eyes. “Figures. Okay, if you’re going to sit here and play teacher, at least teach me something useful.”

“Useful?” His brow arches. “Like what?”

“Swear words.”

He laughs outright this time. “Of course you’d want to know that.”

“I’m serious,” I insist. “If I’m going to learn Russian, I might as well know how to tell someone off properly.”

“You already know how to tell me off, Mila. And you don’t need Russian for that.”

I huff, crossing my arms. “Fine. Then I’ll just look them up myself.”

“You’d butcher the pronunciation.”

“Then teach me,” I challenge.

For a moment, he says nothing, just studies me with that infuriatingly calm intensity of his. Then, slowly, he leans back and gestures toward the notebook.

“Write this down,” he says, his tone all business now. “Moya lyubov’.”

I scribble the word onto the page, then glance up at him suspiciously. “What does it mean?”

He shrugs, a devilish glint in his eyes. “Try using it the next time you’re annoyed with me.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re not telling me, are you?”

He smirks again, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Say it, Mila.”

“Moya lyubov’.”

“Perfect. You’ve got the hang of it.”

“If this turns out to mean something embarrassing—”

“It doesn’t,” he interrupts smoothly, but the amusement dancing in his eyes tells me otherwise.

“Why are you even doing this?” he finally asks.

I glare at him, wondering if he’s really that dense or if he just wants to hear me say it.

“Because it’s your language,” I snap. “And maybe I’m tired of being an outsider.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something I can’t place—before it disappears. He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.

“Get dressed,” he says. “We’re going out.”

“Out where?”

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