“That’s okay,” I say quickly, grabbing my shirt from the sofa arm where he flung it earlier. “I’ll just get dressed.”
He nods, leaning down to press a brief kiss to my temple. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him go, an absent-minded smile tugging at my lips. I probably look foolish but I don’t care in the least.
I suddenly give in to the urge to giggle and let out a rasped laugh.
I’m so happy I could write a whole book in mere seconds.
I get dressed quickly and head to the kitchen to check on thepirozhkidough. It seems to have risen, so I grab the recipe note by the coffee machine and read through the next steps slowly.
Looks simple enough.
It doesn’t matter that I’m a disaster in the kitchen…I’ve been doing well so far.
Right?
Chapter Six
Andrei
The call with Kevin leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I end it and stare at my phone for a second longer than necessary, jaw tight. A container was added to the manifest without authorization. The bastard didn’t even care to avoid suspicion.
I’ve instructed Kevin to open the container, photograph everything, and document every detail. Whatever is being moved through my port, I’m going to know what it is, and once I do…I’ll know who’s bold enough to test me.
Annoyance hums low in my chest as I leave the office. I head to the living room, stopping short at the sight before me—Mila, in the kitchen, balanced precariously on one of my bar stools, stretching on her toes to reach a cabinet that was never meant for her height. Her skirt rides up slightly as she reaches, her body swaying dangerously.
My heart jumps to my throat.
“Jesus—Mila.”
I move fast, too fast to think. The stool wobbles just as I reach her, her balance slipping, her breath catching in a small, startled gasp as I catch her.
Her body collides with mine, light and warm and terrifyingly fragile in my arms. For half a second, all I feel is relief so sharp it nearly drops me to my knees. Then the fear curdles into anger.
Not at her—never that—but at the thought of her getting hurt.
“Are you out of your mind?” I say tightly, setting her down only long enough to pull the stool back and sit myself on it.
She opens her mouth, probably to apologize.
I don’t give her the chance. I let my impulse take over. I draw her back to me and settle her across my lap, my hand already smoothing over the back of her thigh beneath her skirt.
“Mila,” I say, keeping my voice low, controlled, “you don’t do things that put you in danger.”
Her breath catches, her body tensing up.
I lift my hand and bring it down sharply against her backside. Once. The sound echoes louder than I expect in the quiet kitchen.
She gasps.
“That,” I continue, my voice steady despite the way my pulse roars in my ears, “is for not waiting.” I spank her again, keeping the stroke measured, not cruel and she whimpers, her hands gripping my forearm.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice trembling. “I-I didn’t think, Daddy—”
The word lands between us like a live wire. For a split second, everything stops.