Soldier Mine (Sons of War #2)(23)

This terrifies me. Independence of thought is part of the maturing process, but here, now, with our situation, it’s also dangerous. I don’t know how to handle it or what to do about the gun hidden under my mattress.

Petr might. Clearly not a stranger to weapons or teens, I want to banish the idea of asking his opinion, especially after today. He called me beautiful and then disappeared. I don’t quite know what that means or why, despite this, he still seems like the kind of guy I want to trust.

“Hey, Claud, can you warm me up some turkey?” Todd calls.

“Already? You ate like five times today.”

“Pleeeeeeease?”

“Whatever, kid.”

I do as he asks then spend the rest of my evening in front of the television, hoping Gibbs from NCIS will help me figure out what to do.




I don’t expect Petr to be present the next morning after the events of yesterday and am almost surprised he’s at the diner when I arrive. He’s in his normal spot. Eileen is adding more Christmas decorations to the cluttered windows, and the dining area is crowded with shoppers out early for Black Friday deals.

Petr catches my gaze and smiles when I walk in, which renders me instantly hyper aware of everything from how warm it is in the diner to the wrinkling of my nose at the scent of the new maple-bacon waffles on the holiday menu. If our exchanges were awkward before, I’m afraid to discover how much tenser they might be now.

I take him his usual. Not one to beat around the bush when I’ve messed up, I decide to address the issue directly. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I start.

“Sorry?” Petr echoes, looking up at me. “For …”

“I offended you, I think.”

“Really?”

Men can be so stupid sometimes. I roll my eyes at him. If he doesn’t get it, I’m not going to expand on the issue. He’s puzzled enough for me to think I made it all up in my head, but I can’t really explain his sudden departure and the fact we crossed paths twice more and he didn’t bother stopping to talk. If I didn’t offend him, I don’t know what happened.

Fed up with him already, I leave and circulate among the shoppers to take orders and refill drinks.

To my surprise, someone joins Petr shortly after I refill his coffee, a man who is clearly a relative by his similar build and sparkling eyes. He’s burlier, close to sixty with a quick smile like Petr and dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans.

I take him a mug and glass of water. “What can I get you?” I ask.

Definitely a relative. His eyes are identical to Petr’s, and the skin around them crinkles deeply when he smiles. “Whatever Petr has.” He has an accent that sounds Slavic.

I whisk away to grab pie and return.

“This is what you eat?” the man asks Petr doubtfully.

Petr chuckles. “Yeah, Baba. Every morning.”

“So you do not come here for the food and definitely not for the coffee,” the man peers into his half-empty mug with a frown. “He must be here for you.” He turns his focus to me.

“I can assure you otherwise,” I reply.

“I am trying to marry him off,” Petr’s father continues calmly. “If you want him, you can have him. In exchange, I want three grandchildren.”

Petr snorts and drinks his coffee, apparently accustomed to his father’s attempts to play matchmaker.

I stifle a laugh, not expecting the solemn offer from the newcomer. “Only if he comes with a twelve foot chocolate turkey,” I retort with a smile.

“Why was it twelve feet, Petr?” The man turns on his son. “How are you going to get it out of the center?”

“I don’t know yet, Baba,” Petr responds.

This time, I do laugh and move away before his father can make a second offer of marrying off his son. Petr bears through it with a shrug, and I start to understand why nothing seems to faze him. It wasn’t just the military that taught him how to take things in stride but a father, and the sister he mentioned, who seem to have personalities the opposite of his.

I went to the center yesterday hoping for a glimpse into his life. It was too crowded to determine anything except that money was definitely not an issue for the Khavalov family. Anyone who can feed and entertain a town, even if for a day, has an unimaginable size of wealth.

It’s with unusual eagerness that I glance over at the two more than once as I make my rounds. I wanted to see something more about Petr, and his father shows up. Excitement makes the Petr-butterflies in my stomach do cartwheels.

I take his father a menu in case he wants something other than pie. He’s halfway finished with his slice and pushes it away. “No, thank you,” he says. “Your name is …”

“Claudia,” Petr answers.

“Claudia, I will throw in the chocolate turkey if you will take this turkey off my hands.” Petr’s father cracks a smile.

His dry wit is entertaining. While burning with curiosity about the family, I’m also trying hard to avoid the topic of Petr entirely. Petr is calm and relaxed, a small smile on his face, unaffected by his father trying to barter him off.

“Baba’s been at this since I was sixteen,” Petr explains. “Can you imagine how embarrassing it was to have him meet my first girlfriend?”

“In my time, in Russia, the parents helped their children find good spouses,” his father replies.