Page 21 of Toxic Attraction
"I love waffles," I say honestly. "Especially with strawberries and whipped cream."
Her face brightens slightly—not a smile, but close. "Mama used to make waffles. Every Sunday. With strawberries."
"That sounds perfect. Your mama must have been a very good cook."
"She was." Mila's voice goes quieter. "But she's gone now. Papa says she's in heaven, but I don't know what that means."
Oh goodness, she's seven and has lost her mother, and she doesn't even understand what death means.
"It means she loved you very much," I say softly. "And even though she's not here anymore, that love doesn't go away. It stays with you always."
Mila looks at me with those too-old eyes, and for a second, I see something crack in her careful composure. "Elena says I shouldn't talk about Mama. She says it makes Papa sad."
"Sometimes grown-ups get sad when they remember people they loved," I tell her gently. "But that doesn't mean you can't remember her. Or talk about her. Your memories are precious, Mila. Don't let anyone take those away from you."
She nods slowly, and her small hand reaches out to touch mine. Just for a second. A fleeting connection before she pulls back.
"I like you," she says quietly. "You're not harsh and are easy to talk to."
Before I could respond, I could sense the eyes on me.
A presence in the doorway.
The temperature in the room drops, and every instinct screamspredator.
I look up, and Lev Volkov is standing there.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just watches with those pale gray eyes, and the weight of his attention is suffocating, crushing, drowning me where I crouch beside his daughter.
"Papa!" Mila's voice isn't quite bright, just mildly excited. She steps toward him — not running, because this child doesn't run anywhere. It’s as if they have erased every childish trait from her.
He doesn't take his eyes off me, but his hand comes down to rest on Mila's head briefly. The gesture is gentle. Protective. So at odds with the man who held a gun to my forehead that it makes my head spin.
"Go find Elena," he says quietly.
Not a request. An order.
Mila glances between us, and something in her small face tightens with understanding. Or fear. She nods once and leaves quickly, disappearing down the corridor without looking back.
And then I'm alone with him.
He still doesn't move from the doorway. Just stands there watching me with that predator intensity, like I'm prey and he's deciding when to strike.
I can't move. Can't breathe. All I can think about is the gun, the way it felt pressed against my forehead, the certainty that I was about to die.
My hands are shaking. I clasp them together and dig my nails into my palms, trying to stop the trembling, but it's useless.
He sees it. I know he sees it because his eyes drop to my hands, then back to my face.
"Keep cleaning."
What?
"Keep cleaning," he repeats, voice low and cold. "Unless you want everyone in this house to know you're terrified of me."
Everyone already knows. They have to know. I ran out of his wing yesterday like the building was on fire.
But I grab the dust cloth with shaking fingers anyway and turn back to the bookshelf, trying to focus on wiping down spines when all I can feel is his eyes on me.
