Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,58

appear on any Forbes lists, though several Russian billionaires do, and the Molotovs sound even richer.

Of course it’s possible I couldn’t find anything because of all the Molotov cocktail references clogging up search results. I’ll have to ask Nikolai or his sister if they’re any relation to the Soviet foreign minister the homemade explosives are pejoratively named after.

At my reply, Nikolai frowns into the camera, looking concerned. “You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?”

I shake my head with a smile. “I just haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

Maybe it’s the lack of any alarming discoveries in my search, or the simple reality that he’s not here to make my body hum with physical awareness, but I feel calmer talking to him tonight… safer. After all, it’s possible that my experiences over the past month have shredded my nerves, leading me to see danger where none exists, and all the supposed red flags—his bullet wound scar and busted knuckles, the guards and all the security measures—have innocuous explanations. In fact…

“Were you ever in the military?” I ask impulsively, and more tension leaves my shoulders as Nikolai nods, a faint smile dancing on his lips as he leans back in his chair.

“My family has a long history of distinguished service to the country, and my father insisted my brothers and I follow the tradition. All three of us enlisted at eighteen and served for several years.” He tilts his head, regarding me thoughtfully. “Were you wondering about this?” He touches his left shoulder.

“I was,” I admit sheepishly. I’m beginning to feel like an idiot for letting my imagination run wild before. “What happened? Were you shot?”

He nods. “A sniper sent a bullet my way. Luckily, he missed.”

“Missed?”

His white teeth flash in a grin. “I’m not dead, am I?”

“No, thank God.” Still, my chest squeezes as I picture that scar and the pain he must’ve experienced as the bullet tore through his flesh. “Did it take you long to recover?”

“A few weeks. I was only twenty at the time, which helped.”

“Still, I can’t imagine it was fun.” Unable to resist the temptation, I ask, “Do you keep up with your training to this day? Like… fighting and stuff?”

I’m trying to be subtle, but he sees right through me anyway.

Grinning wickedly, he holds up his hands, turning them to show the bruised knuckles to the camera. “You’re asking about these, I assume? That’s from sparring with a few of my guards. They’re from my former unit, and we go at it once in a while—at least when Pavel can’t oblige me.”

I grin back at him, so relieved I could cry. Of course his guards are his army buddies; that makes so much sense, and speaks volumes about his character. “Was Pavel in the army with you as well?” I can easily picture the man-bear in army fatigues, toting an M16 and maybe carrying a tank on his shoulders.

To my surprise, Nikolai shakes his head. “He actually served with my father. He enlisted at fourteen, and they let him, since he was already his current size and looked all of twenty-five.”

“Oh, wow. So he’s known your family since before you were born?”

“Long before,” Nikolai confirms. “My father hired him straight from the army, and he’s been with our family ever since.”

“Lyudmila too?”

“No, they’ve only been married for about ten years.” He laughs. “Alina just about had a fit when he first introduced Lyudmila to us. I think my sister was under the impression that Pavel was her exclusive property.”

My eyes widen. “She had a crush on him?”

“Not precisely, no. I think she thought of him more as a second father.” His smile fades, and something bleak flickers in his eyes before his lips take on their usual darkly sensual curve—that cynical, seductive smile that, I’m now realizing, hides his true emotions. Leaning closer to the camera, he says softly, “Enough about them. Tell me about your day, zaychik. What did you and Slava do while I’ve been gone?”

Right, that’s why he’s calling: to get a report on his son. Concealing an irrational pang of disappointment, I put on my tutor hat and fill him in on our activities and the progress Slava’s making. He listens attentively, interrupting occasionally to ask follow-up questions, and as our conversation continues, I realize I have to revise yet another negative opinion I had of him.

Nikolai does care about his son. A lot.

I caught a glimpse of it this morning, when Slava and I lay there on the bed, and I