But I'd seen it. The way his gaze had snagged on the sweater I was wearing.
Dove grey cashmere. One of the ones he'd provided, expensive and soft. I'd told myself I was wearing it because it wascomfortable. Because my other clothes were in the laundry. Because it was cold in the compound this morning.
All lies. I'd worn it because some pathetic part of me wanted him to look at me like that. Wanted him to notice. Wanted him to regret pulling away.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was controlled, professional. Like we hadn't kissed. Like I hadn't felt him hard against my hip before he'd retreated. "How did you sleep?"
"Fine." The lie came automatically. I'd barely slept, actually. Had woken up at three AM from another nightmare, counted to four until my hands stopped shaking, then lay awake imagining what would have happened if he'd stayed.
"Good." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. I sat. Crossed my legs. Noticed the way his jaw tightened slightly before he pulled a phone from his drawer and slid it across the polished mahogany.
An iPhone in a sleek black case. Newer than anything I'd ever owned.
"For you," he said.
I stared at it. "Why?"
"Because you need one." He leaned back in his chair, that controlled posture that made him look relaxed when I knew he wasn't. "My number is programmed in. Maks's number. Kostya's. The compound's main line. Keep it charged and with you always."
I picked up the phone. It was heavier than I expected, solid in my hand. The screen lit up when I touched it, showing a simple background—grey, neutral, inoffensive. I swiped through to the contacts. Four entries, just like he'd said.
Nikolai (cell). Maks Besharov. Kostya Besharov. Besharov Compound Main.
"Is this because I can't be trusted?" The words came out sharper than I meant them to. Defensive. But giving someone aphone with your numbers programmed in felt like a leash, not a gift.
"It's because you're valuable," he corrected quietly. His eyes held mine. "And because the Belyaevs are still out there. If something happens—if you need help, if you feel unsafe, if anything seems wrong—I need to be able to reach you. You need to be able to reach me."
The way he said it made my throat tight. I need to be able to reach you. Like he'd been thinking about scenarios where I was in danger and he couldn't get to me.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded once. Looked away first, which felt like a small victory. "There's a stipend loaded on the account. Five hundred a month, like the contract states. You can use it for personal expenses. Clothes, books, whatever you need."
"I don't need anything."
"Everyone needs something." His voice had gone softer. More intimate. The Pakhan mask slipping slightly. "If you think of something, tell me."
What I needed was for him to kiss me again. To stop pretending that night hadn't happened. To acknowledge that we'd both felt something real and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
But I couldn't say that. So I just nodded and clutched the phone like it was a lifeline instead of a tracking device.
The silence stretched. Heavy. Charged. All the things we weren't saying filling the space between us until the air felt thick enough to choke on.
His eyes met mine. Held. I couldn't look away.
I wondered if he touched himself thinking about me. If he lay in bed at night and remembered how I'd tasted. If he regretted pulling away or if he was relieved he'd maintained control.
I wondered if I'd ever be brave enough to ask.
"You should get to work," he said finally. His voice was rougher than it had been. Like something was costing him. "The library is yours today. I have meetings until three."
Dismissed. I stood on shaking legs, the phone clutched in my hand.
"Sophie."
I stopped at the door. Turned back. He was standing now, hands braced on his desk, that careful control fraying at the edges.
"Keep the phone with you," he said. "Always."
