Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,32

one and a fork in the other, European style, but that’s not what draws my attention.

It’s his knuckles. They’re red and swollen, as if he’s been in a fistfight.

My pulse spikes as I look away, then sneak another look at his hands.

Yep. I didn’t imagine it. Nikolai’s knuckles are a mess. In general, his big, masculine hands look like they’ve seen a lot of action, with calluses on the edges of his thumbs and faded scars in a few places. Even his short, neatly groomed nails can’t hide the truth.

These aren’t the hands of a wealthy playboy. They belong to a man intimately acquainted with either hard manual labor or violence.

The suspicions I’d all but suppressed return, and this time, I can’t pretend they’re baseless. Something about the Molotovs unnerves me. Who are they? Why are they here? I can see a rich foreign family spending a couple of weeks in a place like this as a “nature detox,” but to actually move here? Someone as glamorous as Alina belongs in Paris or Milan or New York, not a corner of Idaho where there are more bears than people. Same goes for Nikolai, with his smooth, cosmopolitan manners and insistence on Downton Abbey attire at dinner.

My new employers are the very epitome of the jet set—at least if one ignores Nikolai’s street brawler hands.

I force myself to look away from those angry-looking knuckles and focus on the child next to me, who’s again eating calmly and quietly. Disconcertingly so, I realize. What four- or five-year-old doesn’t play at least a little with his food? Or demand adult attention on occasion? I know the boy can smile and laugh and play like any other child his age, so why does he turn into a kid-sized robot at mealtimes?

Feeling my gaze on him, Slava looks up, his big golden-green eyes strikingly solemn. I smile at him brightly, but he doesn’t smile back. He just refocuses on his plate and resumes eating. I eat as well, but I continue watching him, my sense of wrongness intensifying by the second. There’s something unnatural about my student’s behavior, something deeply concerning. Maybe the boy is more traumatized by his mother’s death than he seems on the surface, or maybe something else is going on… something far worse.

I steal another glance at Nikolai’s knuckles, a horrible thought slithering into my mind.

To my infinite relief, the injuries look fresh, as if he’s just pounded something or someone into the ground. Since Slava’s been with me all morning, he couldn’t have been that someone. Besides, only an impact of great force could’ve caused those types of contusions, and there’s nothing about the way Nikolai’s son is sitting or moving that would indicate he’s been beaten so severely—or at all.

Whatever my employer is guilty of, it’s not child abuse, thank God. I don’t know what I’d do if that were the case. No, scratch that. I know. I’d call Child Protective Services and run, taking my chances with my mom’s killers.

Which reminds me: I still don’t have my car keys.

I’m about to ask Nikolai about them when Alina smiles at me and asks, “Have you always wanted to be a teacher, Chloe?”

I nod, setting down my fork. “Pretty much. I’ve always loved both children and teaching. Even as a child, I’d often play with kids younger than myself so I could cast myself in the role of their instructor.” I grin, shaking my head. “I think I just liked having them look up to me. Stroked my ego and all that.”

As I speak, I’m cognizant of Nikolai’s eyes on me, intent and unwavering. A predator’s stare, filled with both hunger and infinite patience. My skin burns under its weight, and it takes everything I have to keep my gaze on Alina and pick up my fork as if nothing is happening.

She asks about my choice of college next, and I tell her how I was lucky enough to get a full-ride scholarship there.

“I’d never even thought about applying to such an expensive school,” I say between bites of delicious smoked fish and richly flavored beet salad. It helps if I concentrate on the food instead of the man staring at me. “My mom worked as a waitress, and money was tight for as long as I can recall. I was going to go to community college, then transfer to a state school, using a combination of scholarships, loans, and work-study to pay my way through. But just as I