Page 114 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"She called me her ????????? ??????—little swan." My voice cracks on the Russian. "Said I was too serious for six years old. That I practiced my positions like the world would end if my feet weren't perfect."

I demonstrate a développé, leg rising slow and controlled despite the deep ache between my thighs. The position holds, rock steady despite everything.

"After they died, Mikhail said the same thing. Called me little swan." The words taste like ash. "But when he said it..." My leg trembles, the position wavering. "It meant something else. It meant I was graceful enough to kill beautifully. That I could make murder look like art."

Something breaks in Jax's expression. His hands clench into fists against the granite.

"He stole her words. Made them ugly." My leg drops as the position becomes impossible to maintain. "Now when I dance, I hear his voice, not hers. 'My little swan, so beautiful when she kills.' He turned my mother's love into his weapon."

"Jesus fucking Christ." His voice comes out like gravel.

"He told me I murdered with more grace than most people lived. Made it sound like artistic achievement."

"But you're still dancing."

The observation stops my movement cold.

"Right now, in this kitchen, you're not killing anyone. You're just... remembering your mother."

Heat builds behind my eyes again. Different tears this time. Not for what was lost, but for what might still exist.

"Thank you for not trying to fix me, ???????."

The word slips out before conscious thought can stop it. My hand flies to my mouth.

???????.

The word my mother used when she looked at my father like he hung the stars.

"What did you just call me?" His smile is gentle, curious, but his eyes burn with something deeper.

Heat floods my face. "Dorogoy. It means... dear one. Beloved."

My pulse races so hard I'm sure he can see it in my throat.

"It's what my mother called my father." The admission feels like handing him a loaded weapon. "Every morning. Every night before bed. Even when they argued about business deals that went wrong, she'd still whisper it before they fell asleep. I'd sneak to their door just to hear it."

My chest tightens with the memory of padding down our long hallway in my nightgown, pressing my ear to their bedroom door. Feeling safe because if mama still called papa ???????, everything would be okay.

His smile grows wider, genuine warmth spreading across his features. Something shifts in his posture—shoulders straightening, that protective energy focusing entirely on me.

"Say it again."

"Dorogoy." Softer this time. Testing the word like a key in a lock I thought was broken.

He moves closer, careful not to crowd. His hand finds mine on the counter, thumb brushing over scratches I don't remembermaking—crescent marks from my own nails when I couldn't control my hands.

"Wait, wait, wait—" He pulls out his phone, typing frantically with one hand while still holding mine with the other. His tongue pokes out slightly in concentration, that earnest focus that makes my chest tight. "I want to say it back but I need to make sure I don't completely butcher it—okay, got it."

He looks up from the screen, face flushed with determination and something that looks like reverence.

"Moya dorogaya?"

The pronunciation is terrible. Absolutely mangled. But the way he says it—like he's offering me something precious—makes my breath catch.

Actually smile. Not the practiced expression for manipulation, but something genuine that makes my cheeks hurt because those muscles have atrophied.

"Your accent is horrible." But there's no sting in it.