Page 31 of Brutal Reign (Bratva Kings #3)

Hope’s still form is visible, curled beneath the covers of the larger bed on the far side of the room. I had it brought in last night, assuming she wouldn’t want to squeeze into Kin’s small twin.

I tilt the screen so he can see.

Poor kid was probably disoriented in his new room.

“She was very tired from our trip.” I keep my voice gentle. It’s the same tone I used with Kamilla when nightmares woke her. “We should let her rest.”

Kin stares up at me, and I stare down at him.

I’m supposed to do something right now. I’m the fucking adult, but I really have no idea what that is.

Except, maybe that’s not entirely true. I used to know what to do.

Kamilla would wake up crying, panicked from some nightmare or stomachache, and I’d bring her tea and toast, and sit on the floor beside her bed until she felt better.

I clear my throat. “Are you hungry?”

He nods, those blue eyes still holding me with caution and curiosity.

“Me too,” I say, straightening up and offering my hand. “Let’s find something to eat.”

He hesitates for a heartbeat, then slowly he places his small hand in mine.

My kitchen looks like a crime scene. Flour dusts every surface, like ash after an explosion.

Eggshells litter the marble countertop, and something sticky has congealed on the cabinet handles.

The sink is piled with mixing bowls, measuring cups, and a frying pan that will probably need to be thrown out rather than cleaned.

Yarik is going to have a fucking conniption.

I can’t remember the last time I cooked, but when Kin looked up at me and asked for pancakes, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. Yeah, I have a cook, but Kin seemed freaked out enough. Having my staff milling around wouldn’t help that.

So I found a recipe online, ransacked my own kitchen for ingredients I didn’t know I had, and after three disastrous attempts, managed to produce a stack of misshapen circles that technically qualify as pancakes.

Kin sits across from me at the kitchen table, his dinosaur propped in the chair beside him like another guest. His legs swing free, not quite reaching the floor, as he carefully cuts another piece of pancake with the edge of his fork.

He frowns at the raspberry preserves I’ve placed in front of him. “Don’t you have syrup?”

I shrug. “Russians don’t do syrup on pancakes. We like jam. And we call pancakes blinis . Trust me,” I say, spreading a thick layer over the next batch, then sliding the plate back toward him. “You’ll like it better than syrup.”

He studies the glistening pancake with open skepticism. “What is Roossian?”

I smile, watching as he cautiously pokes at the jam with his fork. “I am. It means I was born here, in Russia.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Is that why you talk funny?”

I realize he’s talking about my accent, which probably does sound funny to his ears. Despite growing up in Hong Kong, he speaks flawless English.

“Yes, Russian is my first language, but I taught myself English. Made myself read English books even when they were hard. Watched American movies with subtitles, then without them.”

“Why?” He takes a tentative bite of the jam-covered pancake. He doesn’t make a face, which I take as a win.

How do I explain to a four-year-old that English was my ticket out of the slums, that it opened doors that would have remained forever closed to a boy from my background?

“It was important for business,” I say simply. “If you want to work with people all over the world, you need to speak their language.”

He nods, satisfied with my response. “The pancakes aren’t that good, but I like the jam.”

An easy smile grows on my face. Kids don’t sugarcoat anything. “I’m not much of a cook,” I admit.

He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Are you my dad now?”

I nearly choke on a sip of coffee. I lower the mug slowly, trying to think of what to say. He’s watching me with solemn eyes, waiting for an answer that won’t shatter his already unstable world.

“I married your mom,” I say carefully. “So technically, that makes me your stepfather.”

“Simon was supposed to be my dad,” he says matter-of-factly, returning to his pancakes. “But he didn’t make Mama happy.”

My hand tightens around my mug. “No?”

“They fought a lot, but Mommy didn’t want me to know. He was mean.”

Something hot and violent stirs in my chest. “How was he mean to you, malchik ?”

He looks up at me, suddenly vulnerable. “He didn’t want me.”

“Well,” I say, keeping my voice even despite the rage building inside me, “you don’t have to worry about Simon anymore.”

No one has to. Simon is going to die a very gruesome death when the time comes.

Kin takes another bite of his breakfast, apparently reassured by my answer. “My mom likes chocolate,” he says, completely changing topics. “If you want her to be happy, you should get her some.”

“Chocolate, huh? What kind?”

He shrugs.

I’ve seen Hope terrified, defiant, exhausted, and resigned. But I haven’t seen her smile since London. I suddenly want to, with an intensity that surprises me.

“I won’t forget that,” I say, tapping my temple.

Kin nods, satisfied that I’ve understood the importance of his advice, and returns his attention to his plate. “Can I have more jam?”

I push the jar toward him, watching as he scoops up a too-large dollop. Jam smears across his small fingers, and he licks them clean with childish enthusiasm.

“So, the preserves grew on you?” I ask, pleased.

Kin nods, then holds up his dinosaur as if the toy is whispering in his ear. He listens with exaggerated attention.

“Spike says we need chocolate chips next time. And bananas.”

“Does he now?” I arch an eyebrow, playing along. “Well, I’ll have to make sure we get some then.”