Chapter 1
Mina
I blinked up at the night sky, still clutching my purse like it might stop my heart from doing cartwheels. The air practically sizzled with awkward tension as we reached Mikel’s car—his ridiculously shiny black sports car that I suddenly wanted to kick. Just a little. Maybe.
“What just happened?” I asked, my voice coming out in a squeaky, confused puff. My brain was spinning like it had been dunked in glitter and chaos.
Mikel leaned against the hood like a brooding anti-hero in a YA movie. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Eyes doing that angry squint thing. Ugh.
“What?” he snapped. “You were flirting with Volkov. That’s what.”
I stared at him. “What?! I was not—what?! No! I bumped into him and spilled his beer! Because I’m a klutz! You know this!”
He pushed off the car and took a step closer, all intense and annoyed and very… hockey-boy. “Yeah? And the way you laughed? The way you looked at him?”
“Because I was being polite! He had beer all over his jeans! I panicked and said something dumb about laundry and—oh my gosh, you can’t seriously think that was flirting.”
“Oh, come on.” He scoffed, pacing now like some wound-up panther. “It didn’t look like innocent conversation from where I was standing.”
I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes. “So you’ve got x-ray vision now? Mind-reading powers? Because I was literally apologizing.”
“You’re not listening,” he growled, stopping to glare at me like I’d just handed Volkov my phone number and social security number. “That guy—he’s not just some rando. He’s Volkov. He gets off on pushing my buttons.”
“Well, maybe you should stop handing him a remote control every time he walks into a room!” I snapped, throwing up my hands. “This isn’t about him. It’s about us!”
“Us,” he repeated like it was a bad punchline. “You sure as hell didn’t look like someone who’s taken when you were laughing at his jokes.”
“Are you hearing yourself right now?!” I half-laughed, half-sputtered. “I wasn’t laughing because I was enchanted by his charm, I was laughing because I accidentally dumped his beer on his crotch and I didn’t know how to human!”
He stalked closer again, and suddenly his whole vibe turned even darker. “So what was it then? You feeling sorry for the big bad ‘Russian Reaper’? You trying to fix him or something?”
That one actually stunned me silent for a second. The way he said it, like I was some… bleeding-heart groupie with a hero complex.
I opened my mouth, ready to unleash something clever or devastating, but nothing came out except smoke and fury.
“What do you want me to say, Mikel?” I finally managed, my voice cracking just a little.
“I want you to be honest,” he shot back. “Do you even get how this looks?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I said—okay, maybe yelled—a little louder than necessary. My voice was shaking now, but I didn’t back down. I never backed down.
He just glared at me for another beat, then turned away again, dragging both hands through his hair like he wanted to yank it out.
I stood there, heart pounding, wishing we were back at the beginning of the night when everything still made sense—and no beer had been spilled on any Russian hockey players’ pants.
“You made a bet,” I said, my voice wobbling like a Jenga tower on its last block. “A bet, Mikel. Involving me. And Volkov. For thirty days.”
He looked away, jaw clenched so tight I thought he might crack a molar. Classic Mikel: avoid eye contact and hope the girl magically forgets the part where she’s turned into a damn trophy.
“What did you expect?” he muttered, his face stormy and sulky all at once. “I had to assert myself. You think I want him thinking I’m some cuck?”
Cuck? I almost laughed. Almost. But the sound that came out was more like a half-choked are you freaking kidding me gasp. My stomach twisted like a pretzel on fire.
“You made a bet about me spending thirty days with Volkov?” I said, slowly, because I genuinely couldn’t believe this was real life and not some Netflix drama where I was the tragic but lovable heroine.
“Look, it’s not what you think?—”
“Oh really?” I snapped, arms crossing without my permission. “Because it sounds exactly like what I think.”
