Page 52 of Shatter Me

"You're staring," he murmurs.

"You look different like this." I reach out, running my fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. He lets me, which surprises us both. "Less..."

"Controlled?" A shadow crosses his face.

"I was going to say intimidating." I take another sip of coffee. "Though you're still that too. Just... there's something else."

He steps between my legs, hands settling on my hips. "What else?"

"I don't know. Something real." My fingers trace the scar near his temple. "Like this. How did you get it?"

His jaw tightens for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he answers. "Car accident when I was twelve. Mother was driving."

The pain in those few words stops my breath.

"She didn't survive," he adds quietly.

My hand cups his cheek. He leans into it slightly, eyes closing for just a heartbeat. When they open again, that calculated mask starts sliding back into place.

I force a casual smile, sliding off the counter. "Well, I should probably head out."

"Of course." Dmitri's mask is firmly back in place as he steps away. "I'll have Akim bring the car around."

"No need. I can grab a cab." I button up his shirt, not meeting his eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous." He moves to the fridge, pulling out eggs and vegetables with mechanical precision. "At least let me make you breakfast first."

The offer catches me off guard. "You cook?"

"I have many hidden talents." His knife skills are as precise as everything else about him. He dices peppers into perfect squares. "Sit."

I perch at the breakfast bar, watching him work. He moves through his kitchen like he moves through life—controlled, efficient, brooking no resistance from even an egg white.

"This is getting domestic," I tease, trying to keep my tone light despite my chest tightening.

"Purely practical. Can't have you fainting from hunger." He slides a perfect omelet onto a plate.

His phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession. His shoulders tense.

"Trouble?" I ask, even though I know that look.

"Nothing urgent." He sets the plate before me, but his eyes keep darting to his phone.

"Dmitri." I touch his wrist. "Take the call."

He hesitates, and for a moment, I see something in his expression—like he's fighting against himself.

His phone buzzes again. "Nikolai," he mutters, finally picking it up. His face hardens as he listens. "When?... How many?... I'll be there in twenty."

I'm already standing, gathering my things. "Family business?"

He nods once, sharp and precise.

"Go." I wave at the omelet. "I'll wrap this up for later."

But neither of us moves. We stand frozen in his kitchen, morning light painting everything in soft gold, both pretending this isn't more than it should be.

His phone buzzes again. The spell breaks.

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