Page 71 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

The words hit him before I can even touch him. Jax jumps, wooden spoon clattering against cast iron. The kitchen island stretches between us. Six feet of smooth expanse I'm about to eliminate.

I'm around it before he can turn. His shoulders lock tight as I press against his back, chest brushing him through thin cotton. Heat radiates between us.

"Jesus—fuck—Mira, how do you—" The words tangle. His free hand grips the counter edge, knuckles white against the granite.

I reach around him, trapping his hand on the spoon handle. The gas flame warms my hand as I guide his movements, correcting his technique with practiced control.

"Russians don't announce themselves in kitchens." My breath hits his neck. He shivers. "We just fix things before they become problems."

The threat underneath makes his breathing change. Deeper, controlled. Fighting his body's initial response.

Good. This is exactly the reaction I need.

His body relaxes incrementally against mine. Cologne mixes with garlic and butter. The kitchen smells like home. Like it did before everything went to hell.

He's attempting beef stroganoff. From scratch.

"Where did you learn to cook?"

"Uh—YouTube. And a lot of—" Sauce splashes as he stirs too fast. "A lot of trial and error. Took a few tries to get it right."

His fingers drum against granite—2-1-5, 2-1-5. Even cooking can't quiet the pattern.

He's been at this for hours. While I soaked away the stress of Alexei's operations.

I put my hand over his, slowing his frantic stirring.

"You mentioned your grandmother's cooking. The, uh—" Words stumble like he's sixteen. "Beef stroganoff with too much sour cream and black bread on Sundays."

The memory strikes ma. Babushka's cramped Brighton Beach kitchen, flour dusting her apron, the wooden chair I stood on to stir while she hummed Russian lullabies.

I barely mentioned it in passing days ago. How does he remember these details when I've forgotten sharing them?

The warmth of his body against mine feels too comfortable, too right.

Most men hear what serves them. He hears what matters to me. Dangerous territory. Step back.

I lean closer. "Turn around."

He complies instantly, wooden spoon clutched like a lifeline. I take it, our fingers brushing. His pupils dilate at the contact, irises shifting blue to green in the kitchen light.

"Watch." I demonstrate figure-eights through cream sauce, slow and thorough. "My babushka would say American beef stroganoff is tragedy. Too little cream, too much rush."

He tracks my movements as if memorizing every detail. Being watched this closely makes my pulse race.

"The secret is patience." I step in front of him to put his hand back on the spoon and guide it as the sauce cooks, his body caging mine against granite. "You can't force the flavors. They need time to..."

Trust. Blend. Become something new.

The words stick in my throat. This careful attention, the way he remembers throwaway comments, it's exactly how I build leverage before destroying marks.

Except he's not trying to control me. He's trying to care for me.

His breathing shifts. His free hand finds my hip, fingers spreading wide. Possessive but uncertain.

"Mira."

The way he says my name, prayer and claim combined, makes my chest tighten dangerously.