Page 84 of Twisted Pact

Mila

The smell hits me before I reach the kitchen.

Rich, earthy beets mixed with beef broth and a blend of herbs that takes me back to being seven years old in my grandmother’s tiny apartment. I stop in the doorway and stare at Alexei, who’s standing over the stove, stirring a pot.

“What are you making?”

He turns around, and there’s something almost nervous in his demeanor. “Borscht. Your grandmother’s recipe.”

My throat constricts. I mentioned that dish one time, weeks ago, when he first insisted on keeping tabs on me. Just a passing comment about how nothing had ever tasted as good as Babushka’s cooking. I never expected him to remember, let alone act on it.

“How did you get the recipe?”

“Called your father. Took three tries to get all the measurements right.” He gestures toward the counter, where I can seeevidence of his efforts. Beet peels. Multiple bowls with spice combinations. What looks like several failed attempts at getting the color just right.

Something cracks open inside my chest. Not breaking, but shifting. Making space for feelings I’ve kept locked away.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to.”

The simple honesty in his voice makes my eyes sting. For four days now, we’ve been dancing around each other in this bunker, having polite conversations about practical things. Keeping a careful distance while we work through what the pregnancy means. But this gesture cuts through all that pretense.

He’s been thinking about me, and about what would make me happy. Connecting me to memories that matter.

“It smells perfect,” I tell him.

“Sit. I’ll bring you a bowl.”

I take a seat at the small table while he ladles steaming soup into ceramic bowls. The first spoonful transports me to Babushka’s kitchen, with its faded linoleum and the way sunlight filtered through her lace curtains. The taste is perfect, with every herb balanced just the way I remember.

“This is incredible, Alexei.”

He sits across from me with his bowl but doesn’t eat, just watches me with an unreadable look.

“You called my father,” I say after several spoonfuls. “What did you tell him?”

“That I wanted to make something special for you. He understood.”

Of course, Papa understood. He might be ruthless in business, but he loved Babushka, too, and probably misses her cooking as much as I do.

“She would have liked you,” I say. “Babushka always said the measure of a man was whether he could appreciate good food and wasn’t afraid to learn new things.”

“What else did she say?”

“That life was too short to waste time on people who didn’t make an effort.” I take another spoonful and feel a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the soup. “She would have approved of this.”

We eat in comfortable silence for a while. The first real peace I’ve felt since Dr. Orlov delivered his news. With each bite, I feel some of the walls I’ve built around my heart crumble.

This man kidnapped me, controlled my life, and made decisions for me without asking what I wanted. But he also spent hours perfecting a recipe from my childhood because he wanted to comfort me.

How am I supposed to reconcile those two versions of him?

“Thank you,” I say when I finish the bowl. “For this. For remembering. For caring enough to get it right.”

“You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you.”

“Yes, I do. You didn’t have to do this. You could have ordered takeout or had someone else cook, but you made the effort.”