Ilya frigging Rozanov. Rozanov was sitting calmly, observing the room with the same bemused little smile that infuriated his opponents on the ice. It had to be practiced, because it was a masterpiece. A smile that simultaneously said I am figuring out exactly how to torture you and I don’t care about you at all. “So,” Eric said. “You’re here.” “Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Is there a reason for that, or...” “This place is cozy.” The way Ilya said it—the way he said everything—made it hard to tell if he was making fun of Eric.
