Page 128 of Nikolay

One corner of his mouth tilted. “Then let me at least bribe you into staying long enough to wake properly.”

Before I could decide whether that deserved suspicion or a laugh, he turned toward the small kitchen tucked along the far wall.

The domestic sounds that followed were disarming in a way I resented on principle. A cupboard opened. Ceramic touched wood with a quiet clink. Then came the soft metallic ring of a spoon against a saucepan and the low hiss of heated milk. I sat there on the edge of the couch with my dignity in tatters and listened to him make something warm in a cabin in the woods while the fire breathed and the horses shifted outside, and the entire thing felt like a trap designed by a woman.

Or a man who knew women better than he admitted.

The scent reached me before he did—dark chocolate, rich enough to seem almost sinful, lifted by the sweetness of milk and something faintly vanilla underneath. It made my stomach tighten with immediate interest.

Oh, that was dirty.

He came back carrying a mug in both hands, steam ribboning up from the surface. Tiny marshmallows crowded the top in a little white drift, already beginning to soften into the chocolate. He held it out to me without flourish.

“Here.”

I took it because I was not a fool and because it smelled like comfort had decided to become liquid. The ceramic was hot against my palms. I looked down into the mug and then up at him.

“Did you put marshmallows in here,” I asked, “or anti-anxiety meds?”

Something crossed his face so quickly I nearly thought I had imagined it. Not guilt exactly. Not surprise. A flicker, sharp and unreadable, there and gone before I could pin it down.

Then he laughed, low and easy.

“I don’t need to slip you a Mickey to calm you down, Maddie.”

The answer should have settled me.

Instead, that little vanished expression stayed under my skin like a splinter too small to see and too sharp to ignore.

I turned forward again and took a cautious sip.

The cocoa was obscene.

Deep and dark and thick enough to feel indulgent, sweet without being childish, with that slight bittersweet edge real chocolate had when nobody had insulted it with powder from a packet. Heat moved over my tongue and down my throat in a slow velvet line. I closed my eyes for half a second before I could help it.

“Damn,” I muttered.

“Good?”

I cracked one eye open and glanced back at him. “You know it is.”

“That wasn’t a denial.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

He made a soft sound that might have been amusement, and before I thought to object, he sat behind me on the edge of the couch.

Not pressed against me. Not crowding. Just near enough that I felt the cushion shift and the shape of him at my back. Then his hands came up and settled lightly on my shoulders.

Every muscle in my body tensed.

“Relax,” he said.

“That’s easy for you to say when nobody’s sneaking up on your neck.”

“I did not sneak. I sat directly behind you.”

“That’s somehow worse.”