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I wipe my hands on a towel and lean against the counter, watching her. “Would you have believed me if I told you nothing?”
She hesitates. Then shakes her head.
“Exactly,” I say.
She sighs, grabbing the knife again and turning back to the vegetables. But I can tell her mind is still turning, still working through the information—or lack of it—I’ve given her.
She wants to trust me.
She just doesn’t know if she can.
She’s not satisfied with my answer, but she also knows she won’t get more out of me. Not yet.
I watch her hands move, slow and deliberate. She’s careful, precise. A habit, maybe, from working with children—kindergarten teachers don’t get to be reckless with sharp objects.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?” I ask, breaking the silence.
She doesn’t look up. “I believe she’s alive. But safe?” She lets out a dry laugh. “That depends on your definition.”
I set my knife down, wiping my hands on the towel. “Would you rather she be out there alone, vulnerable?”
Lila’s grip tightens around the handle of her knife. “So what, you’re my savior now? The one keeping my family protected while I should be groveling at your feet?”
I smirk slightly. “I wouldn’t say no to the groveling.”
She scowls, flicking a piece of diced tomato at me. It hits my sleeve and slides off.
“Very mature,” I mutter.
“I’d throw the knife, but I don’t think you’d let me,” she replies, her eyes flickering with something close to amusement.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the counter. “I wouldn’t. But I’d enjoy watching you try.”
Her lips twitch, but she schools her expression into something neutral again. She doesn’t want to fall into this, whatever this is—the easy banter, the familiar pull between us.
She wants to stay angry. She needs to stay angry.
And yet, she hasn’t told me to leave.
She finishes chopping and wipes her hands on a towel, avoiding my gaze. “If she’s safe, then I want to talk to her.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Not yet.”
Lila’s jaw tightens. “Why not?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I push the diced onions into a pan, letting them sizzle before responding. “Because I don’t trust her yet.”
Lila’s hands fist at her sides. “She’s my mother, Mikhail. She’s not part of this.”
“She became part of it the moment she helped you disappear,” I say calmly. “And now I need to be sure she’s not going to do something reckless.”
Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t argue. Not because she agrees—she doesn’t—but because she knows fighting me on this won’t change anything.
She crosses her arms, shifting her weight slightly. “So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
I meet her gaze, holding it steady. “You rest. You eat. You focus on keeping the babies healthy.”
Something flickers across her face at that. She hates that I care. Hates that she can’t deny that I have a claim to them.