Page 131 of Porcelain Lies

Sofia?

What the hell is she doing here?

I thought Aleksei threw her off the property. Although maybe they made up again.

“And then he fucked you yesterday. Nice move.”

I shut Boyana’s mocking voice out of my head and focus on the women whispering in the kitchen.

They’re speaking too softly for me to catch what they’re saying, but it’s impossible to miss the wad of cash that Sofia passes to Imelda. The housekeeper shoves it into the pocket of her apron and looks around furtively. Sofia’s lips curl into a snake-like smile, and she straightens as she steps away.

“I’m glad we have an agreement,” she says crisply, her voice carrying more clearly now.

An agreement?

What the fuck is she up to?

When she reaches for her purse, I realize she’s probably about to leave. And I have no intention of having another run-in with the woman.

Move, Stella.

Now.

I ease back from the door quickly, worried they’ll hear my ragged breathing.

Turning, I jog silently down the hallway, ducking around the corner and then into an open doorway. Sofia’s footsteps clip smartly past me and then fade into the distance.

I hear the door to the front entrance open and then shut. It takes a couple of minutes for my heart to stop racing. Whatever they were up to, I’m certain it wasn’t above board. I’m still ravenous, but there’s no way I’m going to confront Imelda about it now.

“Speak to Lover Boy,”Boyana pipes up.“He’s supposed to be making sure you’re healthy, right?”

It’s probably a stupid idea, but right now, I don’t care. Before I can second-guess myself, I march out of the building and over to the entrance to the Right Wing.

“I need to speak to Mr. Tarasov,” I tell the guard posted in the entrance hall. Before he can reply, I stalk past him and into the heart of the huge house. It doesn’t take me long to find the kitchen; my nose does most of the work.

I give a small start as I walk in. Aleksei is leaning against one of the counters, a mug of coffee in his hand. I’m immediately struck by how different he looks. Gone is the usual sharp suit,replaced by dark sweats and a fitted black tank top that shows off his muscular shoulders and impossibly broad chest.

My mouth goes dry.

“What is it,zaychik?” He tilts his head. “Back for more… lessons.” A dark eyebrow lifts up.

“I haven’t had lunch.” The words tumble out. “Imelda never brought it, and I—”

Dark eyes narrow. “What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

He straightens abruptly and sets his coffee cup down. “That’s unacceptable.” He picks up his phone, barking orders in Russian, then turns back to the counter. I watch in amazement as he moves briskly around the kitchen, gathering ingredients.

I shift awkwardly, unsure whether to leave or stay. Before I can decide, he’s turned back to me, holding a plate. There’s a substantial sandwich on it, alongside a tub of yogurt.

“Sit.” He nods toward the nearby table, a hand on my elbow guiding me in that direction. The casual intimacy of his touch, the way he’s taking charge of the situation — it does things to me I don’t want to examine too closely.

“You should have come sooner,” he says, pulling out a chair for me at the small table. “A pregnant mother needs regular nutrition.”

His genuine concern catches me off guard. This version of Aleksei — casual, attentive, almost… normal — is more dangerous than his usual cold authority. Because it makes me want things I shouldn’t.

“I… um… thanks,” I say, reaching for the sandwich. Part of me wants to put on a display of defiance, but my stomach has other ideas. I bite into the wholesome rye, groaning at the rich tang of prosciutto and provolone. He watches me, something flickering in his expression as I let out another low moan.

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