CHAPTER [ejhkeen fress (n.) to eat without reservation and heartily Ronan SWEAT AND ANIMOSITY CLOAKED THE dining room like a saccharine shadow, though it remained silent enough to hear a pin drop. Or just the scrape of my fork. This wasn’t a usual dinner for me, and it wasn’t due to the presence of two of Alexei’s men, whose bruised bodies and egos were bound to their chairs, but because I preferred to eat supper at eight. Polina swept in to grab my finished plate dressed in her nightgown, a frilly sleep cap askew on her head. Curiosity pulled her out of bed no doubt, rather than a desire to serve me herself; gossiping and cooking were two of her finest talents. It was the latter that made her become the only woman I considered marrying, regardless if she was twenty years my senior and probably weighed more than me. Poverty as an adolescent and four years of prison food taught me to enjoy a meal more than most. When Polina continued to stand there and stare at my guests, I told her in Russian, “That will be all.” She practically jumped out of her nosy stupor and muttered, “Of course,” before rushing from the room so fast her cap flew off. Her arm reached back into the doorway, a hand searching around until it grasped the ruffled hat, and then it and the rest of my cook disappeared. Alexander, Alexei’s nephew, sneered at the scene, but he didn’t say anything. Probably because he was warned if he spoke a word, I’d cut out his tongue. There was nothing more nauseating than hearing loyal sentiments toward Alexei while I ate.