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I’d bet anything that his upbringing at his father’s hands wasn’t far from the way his Mongol ancestor might’ve raised his son back in the thirteenth century, torture skills and all.

I try to probe deeper during dinner, but Nikolai is no longer in the mood to talk about himself. Instead, as he feeds me wine-poached venison with mushroom gravy and sweet potato mash, he keeps the conversation focused on me: my food likes and dislikes, my favorite movies, my friends in college. And he does it so skillfully that I find myself talking to him without reservations, smiling and laughing as I describe the time my roommate’s cat peed on my bed and how one of my guy friends mistook my mom for one of the students and hit on her during our freshman-year orientation.

It’s as if we’re back to our video chats, as if everything that’s transpired since his return has been nothing but a terrible fever dream.

It’s not until dinner is done and he kisses me goodnight, his lips soft and cool on my forehead, that I realize I’ve missed the opportunity to get the answers for the rest of my burning questions.

* * *

The pattern repeats the next morning, when Nikolai brings me breakfast. He skillfully avoids my attempts to bring the conversation around to his father—or my father. Instead, as he feeds me grechka—the roasted buckwheat kasha Alina likes in place of oatmeal—we discuss Slava’s progress and the next lessons I have planned. Then he helps me shower, changes my bandage, and, at my insistence, dresses me in a pair of yoga pants and a soft T-shirt.

My ankle is feeling better, as is my arm, so I intend to be up and about.

“Don’t overdo it,” he warns me as I determinedly limp over to Slava’s room instead of letting him carry me there. “You still need time to heal.”

“I’ll take it easy, don’t worry,” I say, plopping on Slava’s bed—much to the boy’s delight. “We’re going to read some books, build some castles… Nothing strenuous, I promise.”

Nikolai still looks concerned, so I give him a bright smile. “I’m all better, I really am. Didn’t even need a painkiller this morning.” The latter is not entirely true—I could definitely use a painkiller for the dull, nagging ache in my arm—but I decided against taking one, to see if I can tough it out on my own.

Either way, my reassurance works as intended. Nikolai’s face clears. “All right then,” he says, and with a few words in Russian to his son, he leaves us to our lessons.

* * *

By mid-morning, my arm is aching harder—Slava accidentally bumped against the sling while climbing onto my lap—so I limp back to my room to take the painkiller after all.

In the hallway, I run into Lyudmila, who’s carrying a huge bouquet of flowers, everything from lush roses to sunflowers and tulips. “Alina birthday,” she informs me when I ask what it’s for. “Big one. Twenty-five today.”

Oh, shoot. Alina did mention that her birthday is this week when we smoked pot together. I had no idea it was today, though.

Thinking fast, I ask Lyudmila, “Where’s Nikolai?”

I need some kind of gift, and the only thing I can come up with is a bouquet of my own—wildflowers gathered in the forest nearby. During my hikes, I spotted a few places where they grow in abundance.

The trick will be getting to one of those places with my ankle misbehaving, but that’s where Nikolai hopefully comes in.

Lyudmila nods toward his office. “He working.”

Brushing past me, she continues on to Alina’s room, and I bite my lip, eyeing Nikolai’s closed office door. Do I dare interrupt?

A trill of feminine laughter and animated Russian chatter coming from Alina’s room decides it for me.

I can’t not get at least something for Nikolai’s sister.

I limp over to Nikolai’s office and quietly knock.

“Da,” his deep voice replies—yes in Russian.

I take a deep breath. “It’s Chloe. I was just wondering if—”

The door swings open, and the words die on my lips as stunning green-gold eyes meet mine, stealing my breath and spiking my heart rate.

Dammit.

Will my body ever stop responding to him so strongly? At this point, we’ve fucked and he’s bathed me several times, yet his masculine beauty still blindsides me each time we’ve spent a couple of hours apart.

“What is it, zaychik?” he asks, dark eyebrows pulling together as he gives me a swift, concerned once-over. Before I can reply, he grips my hands. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just…” I throw a quick glance over my shoulder. The hallway is empty, but I still lower my voice, just in case. “I need a gift for Alina.”

“Ah. Come in.” He shepherds me into his office and guides me to a chair, which I gratefully sink into. I might’ve overdone it with all the walking today—my ankle is better, but it’s definitely not completely well. Neither is my arm.