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She clears her throat and scoots her chair back, just out of reach. I chuckle and slip my foot back into my shoe. Confirmation achieved. She’s tense again, every trace of that good mood gone. Which means she didn’t get herself off. Dark satisfaction curls through me as I dig into my food.

She glowers at me, muttering under her breath while stabbing her lasagna hard enough for her fork to scrape against the plate.

I raise a brow. “What was that?”

“I said, you’re a fucking bastard.”

“Don’t let my mom hear that. She’d find it personally offensive. She was married to my—she was married when she had Mira and me.” My own mood tanks as thoughts of Viktor slip into my mind. Now that is the real bastard.

“Right. Calling you a bastard is an insult to that poor woman. She did nothing wrong to me. Other than making you.” She downs her water in a single decisive gulp, and despite where my thoughts went, watching her bristle still pulls a smile out of me. It’s fascinating how everything she does interests me. Also a little worrying.

“And what should I call the woman who tried to kill me?” I ask, resting a hand dramatically against my chest.

“Retribution,” she snaps back.

“Retribution? For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe for building a torture chamber for me before I even tried to kill you?” As if she hadn’t already been lying to me by then. “I should have pushed that damn shot straight into your fucking veins. Look where showing mercy got me.”

Exactly where you belong. Stuck with me.

“My, my, your tongue is sharp tonight, solnyshko.” I’ve never seen this side of her before, but I love it. I love it even more that her irritation stems from sexual frustration. A sexual frustration I stoked.

“I’m not your ‘little sun’ or ‘sunshine’ or whatever you’re calling me. You’re so unoriginal.” She rolls her eyes so aggressively that her pupils disappear for a full second. Then she slams down her fork. “I’m done with dinner. I’ve lost my appetite.”

I grab her wrist as she stands. “If you’re done with dinner, should we go upstairs and pick up where we left off last night? Are you ready to cooperate?”

Her hazel eyes flicker, and her lips tremble, sending a strange pang through my chest. But then she yanks her wrist free and sits back down.

Equal amounts of relief and disappointment wash over me. Part of me wants to take her upstairs and tease her until she breaks. The other part is unexpectedly content sitting here, sharing dinner and trading barbs that have nothing to do with sex.

“What was growing up in foster homes like?” I ask after several quiet minutes.

“Almost as unpleasant as this dinner is shaping up to be.” She doesn’t look up as she stabs her lasagna. “Moving from home to home, different families, hoping each time that maybe, just maybe, this one would keep me.” She scoffs, but I don’t miss the crack in her voice.

“Sounds rough.”

“And what do you know about rough?” There’s no heat in her eyes when she finally glances at me. “You grew up surrounded by wealth, with both parents and siblings. You had love and money.”

“While I admit I got lucky with my mom and siblings, my childhood wasn’t exactly a bed of roses. Sometimes having no father is better than having a tyrant for one.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing that. “I suppose I should be grateful none of those families adopted me. They had no real love for the foster kids, and if one of them had adopted me, I wouldn’t have met Millie.” A small smile breaks through.

So our little fight is over, then? I return her smile. “Millie, as in Millicent Wilson?”

“Of course you know about her.” She rolls her eyes yet again. “Yes, Millicent. She’s my best friend, the sister I never had.” Her lips twist, sadness slipping in beneath her words.

“She must be worried sick. She hasn’t seen you in almost two weeks,” I probe.

Instead of answering, she reaches for her glass and drains it in one go. Then, like flipping a switch, she looks back at me. “Do you swim? Is that why you built a pool out back?”

Another deflection. I let it pass. She can have this small reprieve, especially considering what I have planned for her tomorrow.

From there, the conversation drifts to her time by the pool, the tension easing and the talk almost normal as we finish our meals.

“What else did you buy with my card?” I ask, even though I already know. The purchase history listed bikinis, skincare, hair products, and nail polish, but her nails are still bare.

“Like you don’t already know.” She smirks, rising as Hugo starts clearing the table. I get up too, following close enough that she stops short.