A dark-haired girl close to my age entered the room and quietly set fine china dishes on the table in front of us. Bliny. Russian pancakes served with fresh jam—my favorite meal Borya prepared at home in vegan fashion. My stomach churned at the idea of forcing it down, but I would try. I wouldn’t survive in this world if I couldn’t adjust, and I refused to let it eat me alive. I forked a blin and dropped it onto my plate. Ronan only sat back in his chair, the sparkle of my earring twirling between his fingers while he watched me add jam to the top. Cutting into a pancake, I halted when he still didn’t move. “Sorry, did you want to say grace first?” He was amused. “It’s not exactly a routine of mine, but if you want to, PI listen.” “So sure you won’t go up in flames?” “Sounds like you’re counting on it.” Catching Yulia’s gaze as she stepped into the room to water a plant near the window, I said, “Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?” Another humph. I turned my eyes back to the table to see Ronan watching me intensely. “Don’t patronize my staff, kotyonok.” With a sense of annoyance, it felt like I was properly censured. “Don’t call me that.” “PI call you whatever I want.” I met his eyes with bitterness. “Does it make you feel big and strong to push me around?” “No. It makes me hard.” He held my gaze with purpose and “hard” still in the air. I refused to show that his crassness affected me. “Pm curious, is your gentlemanliness an innate behavior, or did you take lessons?” He slipped my earring into his pocket and rested an arm on his throne. “And if I did? You gonna write them a bad review on Yelp?” “I’m sure Satan’s Institute for Local Psychos has enough of them.” He ran a thumb across the scar on his bottom lip, a rough chuckle escaping him. When he laughed, he didn’t appear as threatening. One could never say he looked like a normal man, but something altogether more devious and timeless.