Page 86 of Unveiled

“Listen, Semyon, I understand all this, but I need to make sure this does not become an industrial production company, no matter how much money it makes. This matters to me. I want to keep it small."

"We will," he promises.

“But let’s be honest. You wanted this location. You wanted me because you want access to the bakery."

Something tugs at my chest, an uneasy feeling I can’t quite place.

"We will honor what your mother started, Anya," he promises. "You have my word.”

I didn't expect this rush of emotion when I got here. God, I’m a mess today. The memory of Semyon bringing me my first birthday cake, my mother elbow-deep in a bowl of bread flour, Eli snatching a cookie off a sheet so hotit burned his fingers—it all hits me with the force of a tornado, and I shove it down. We're here for a reason.

Semyon gives a quick, assessing look around the place.

"You need new appliances. Those are shit." I stare at the appliances my mother scraped for. He goes on as if he didn’t just punch me in the gut. "New flooring, new countertops. New fucking everything. No wonder you aren’t selling that well."

"Hey." My hands are anchored on my hips, but he misses it because he's already in the freezer.

"And this is a fucking hazard. Goddamn it, Anya, if you or Stefan got stuck in here…”

I ignore him, heat rising in my chest. I remember what Zoya and Yana told me: He doesn't understand the impact his words have on others. He needs to be told. I get this, but still…

"You said we're opening our doors at regular time tomorrow, right?" I ask him.

"Yes," he says from the depths of the pantry. “God, this is a safety hazard too.”

He steps out, holding a massive bag of sugar balanced on one shoulder and a tray of baking supplies in his hand. “Who stacked fifty-pound bags on top of each other like that?” He sets the sugar down with a thud, pulling a massive jar of cinnamon teetering on the edge of collapse. “And why is this on top of the bags? One wrong move, and this is going up in a cloud, and do you know you could actually choke on cinnamon?”

He narrows his eyes as he nudges a half-open container with his foot. “Seriously, you could lose a limb back there.”

He doesn't know what he's saying, I remind myself. He doesn't understand that I’m taking this personally, and I am taking every damn word personally. I remind myself again. I put my hair up in a messy bun and tie on an apron, and by the time he returns to me, I am elbow-deep in flour.

"What the hell are you doing, Anya?"

"You just told me we're opening in the morning," I tell him. "Obviously, if we're opening in the morning, I need to have some things proofed for baking. And I have to get here before the sun rises; you know that, right?"

“Not if I tell you no, you won't," he snaps, stepping into my space. The two of us are at such opposing ends right now—me, flustered and flour-covered, and him, looking as if he just stepped out of a men's fashion catalog. He's gorgeous and cold, and I want to throw this dough and muss his perfect hair.

"So this is how you’ll play it? You’ll be nice for a couple of days, a couple of weeks, and then all of a sudden, you’re just going to snap and try controlling me?" I blow out a breath. “I am not a pawn in one of your chess games, Semyon! You can’t just toss me aside before someone else calls checkmate. You should know that."

He stops. Stares as if baffled. Does he really have no idea how I’d feel about him storming in here and critiquingmybakery, the one I’ve kept together by the skin of my teeth? “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I look at him, incredulous, trying to remind myself that he doesn’t understand—but he's a grown adult. Heshouldknow exactly what's up.

"You heard me. I said I'm not one of your pawns.” Even as I say it, a part of me wishes he’d push back because I want to feel him. I want him pushing me against the wall and taking control back. I want his hand around my throat, a reminder of what he can do to me. I want all of it, and I don't understand why I want so many conflicting things at once.

He's too close to me. There's a magnetic pull drawing the two of us together, one I can’t resist any more than he can.

"Is that right?" he says, hands on hips. "You want me to leave you alone, stop controlling things? You want me to walk out and leave you to this, don't you? Tell me, Anya. How’d that work for you before?”

My cheeks flush pink as I press my lips into a thin line.

“Tell me to walk away, and I’ll leave you right here to do whatever the hell you need to do with that fucking bread."

He can’t hide the scorn in his voice, and I can’t hide the heat rising in my chest.

"I thought you liked it when I took control," he says with a smug smirk that makes me want to smack him.

"Not with everything." I can’t remove the petulant tone in my voice, but he should know this. I don’t care if he needs people to explain things to him. This is basic common decency. This was my family home. My mother started this.

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