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“Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some lovesick teenager.”

“Aren't you, though?” A smile danced on her lips. “The steadiest of the Lebedev brothers, smitten by a girl half his age.”

“Seventeen years isn't half,” I grumbled.

Elena set her glass down. “So what's the problem? Besides the obvious family feud, of course.”

“The problem is that she's still technically my prisoner and that she’s with me because I kidnapped her. The problem is her brother just threatened to destroy our entire family if I don't return her.”

“And will you?”

“No.” The word came out more forcefully than I'd intended. “I mean... not unless she wants to go.”

Elena's eyes widened slightly. “That's new.”

“What is?”

“You caring what someone else wants.” She studied me for a moment. “You know, she looks at you.”

I stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

“When you're not watching. When you're focused on something else. She looks at you like...” Elena tilted her head, searching for the words. “Like you look at her. With fascination and admiration.”

Something in my chest tightened. “You've only met her once.”

Something in Elena’s face fell flat, but I didn’t think much of it when she shrugged.

“Once was enough. I know that look.”

“So what are you saying, Elena?”

“What I’m saying is don’t lose a happiness you can gain down the line to get what you want now. I don’t know if that makes sense. I’m saying trust yourself. Trust her.”

In that moment, I knewexactlywhat she meant. I realized how wrong I’d been. I didn’t want to keep Larissa in my house; I wanted to keep her in my life.

I caught her hand and squeezed it gently. “Thank you.”

***

When I returned, I found Larissa in the kitchen, attempting to cook something that filled the house with the scent of garlic and tomatoes. She turned when she heard me, a cute little smudge of sauce on her cheek. I walked over and quickly wiped it from her cheek, licking it off my finger.

She giggled as she swatted at her cheek. “You’re back!” she squealed and then pulled me into a hug once she had made sure she didn’t have anything else on her face.

“I’m back,” I said, moving away from her and inspecting the pot. “What are you making?”

“Pasta arrabbiata. It's probably terrible.”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Hey, I might be Italian, but no one said I was a good cook,” she protested.

I laughed as she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I thought... well, you seemed tense before you left.”

The thought that she would cook for me, or at least try to, disarmed me completely. In the time she’d been here, she’d noticed my moods and carved out a space for herself in my life with such subtle persistence that I'd barely noticed until now. And here she was, cooking for me after I'd threatened to dismember her in a conversation with her brother.

“Come!” she said as she pulled me to the informal kitchen table where there was already a setting for two. “We should eat. I’m starving.”

I poured us some wine while she served pasta and salad. For a brief moment, I wondered if I should tell her now. But something in my heart tugged at me to let this moment remain untainted, to remember this night, in case we didn’t have more time together.