Chapter 11
That Smell
Aleks
I hate this.
I hate the way she’s folded in on herself on our bench like the world finally found the one place to hit her where she couldn’t armor up. I hate the way her hands won’t stop shaking. I hate that I don’t know who did this to her.
I crouch in front of her again, slow, deliberate, like I’m approaching something skittish and wounded. Her eyes flick to mine, then away. She trusts me enough to be here, but not enough to look at me yet.
That does something to me.
I keep my voice steady, even though everything in me wants to tear the room apart.
I scrub my hand over my face and mumble, “Ya v zadnitse.” I clear my throat and decide, “Then it’s just me.”
She swallows. Nods once. Barely.
I sit back against the opposite bench, close enough that she knows I’m here, far enough that I’m not crowding her. My arms rest on my knees. I force my hands to stay open.
Who did this to you? The question is screaming in my head. So are a dozen others. Where were you? I know you weren’t at the game. I looked for you. Who scared you? Who made you feel like you couldn’t go home? Is home safe?
I don’t ask any of them. Because this isn’t about answers. It’s about containment.
And somehow, impossibly, she picked me.
The irony is brutal. She doesn’t trust her driver. Doesn’t trust her walls. Doesn’t trust the people who are paid to keep her safe. But she trusts the asshole hockey player who pisses her off so badly she doesn’t show at a game when she owns a fucking luxury box.
That realization hits me sideways. I feel it settle in my chest, heavy and unfamiliar. Not ownership. Not entitlement. Responsibility.
She draws in a ragged breath, then another. Still shallow. Still fighting it.
“Look at me,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t.
“That’s fine,” I add. “Then listen.”
I slow my breathing on purpose, exaggerate it just enough for her to hear. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Controlled. Measured. The same rhythm I use before a faceoff when I need my head clear and my body steady.
I watch her shoulders. Count the seconds. One breath. Then another. Her hands are still shaking, but less. Good.
Anger simmers underneath everything else, scorching hot. Whoever did this? Whoever made her feel hunted or exposed or unsafe, I don’t know their name, not yet, but when I do, I’ll deal with it.
For now, I stay exactly where I am. I don’t touch her. I don’t push. I don’t demand.
I just sit there, breathing steadily in a room that smells like her now, holding back every violent instinct I have because right now, the most important thing I can do is prove I’m not another threat.
She trusts me. That thought lands soft and dangerous all at once. And whatever this thing is that’s growing between us, whatever line we just crossed tonight, I know one thing for sure. I’m not walking away. Not from her. Not from this. Not until I know she’s safe.
She’s just starting to settle.
Not calm, not okay, but quieter. Breathing is finally slowing enough that it’s not a fight every second. Her shoulders drop a fraction. Her hands unclench, fingers still trembling but no longer locked tight like they’re bracing for impact.
I clock it immediately. The way you do when you’ve spent your whole life reading bodies for signs of damage.
Then headlights wash across the glass. A car door slams. Voices. Laughter.
