His expression is neutral, but I know him well enough now to read the tension in his shoulders, the particular stillness that precedes violence.
Vitor parks, and I watch through the tinted window as Zakhar's gaze locks onto the vehicle. Onto us.
"Shit," Vitor breathes.
I open the door before he can try to protect me. Step out with my head high and my mask firmly in place.
Zakhar's eyes track the movement. Then shift to Vitor.
"I need to talk to you," Zakhar says, voice low and ominous. "Now."
It's a command, not a request. And the implication is clear. Vitor is about to pay for letting me leave.
I step forward before Vitor can respond.
"It was my fault," I say, voice carrying across the space between us. "I convinced him to take me. He tried to refuse, but I insisted. We were only gone an hour. We're back now. Safe and sound."
Zakhar goes still. Perfectly, dangerously still.
His gaze shifts from Vitor to me. Holds there with an intensity that makes breathing difficult.
"Fine," he says, each word deliberate. "I'll deal with you first. Then him."
He turns toward the interior of the warehouse. "Security room. Now."
It's not a request.
I follow him through the warehouse, past the living spaces and the gym and the kitchen. My heels click against concrete, too loud in the heavy silence.
The security room is on the ground floor, tucked away from the main living areas. Zakhar opens the door and gestures for me to enter first.
The space is small. Claustrophobic. One wall is lined with monitors showing feeds from cameras positioned throughout the property. Computers sit on a desk, humming quietly. The air conditioning can't quite keep up with the heat generated by all the electronics, and the room is warmer than comfortable.
The only light comes from the monitors. Blue-white glow painting everything in stark contrasts. Shadows and highlights. No middle ground.
Zakhar closes the door behind us.
The click of the latch sounds final.
My pulse accelerates. My palms are suddenly damp. The room feels like it's shrinking around us, the walls pressing in from all sides.
"Zakhar, I—"
"Do you have any idea what could have happened?" His voice is quiet. Controlled. Which makes it more terrifying than if he were shouting. "After last night? After walking out of an ambush by the skin of your teeth? You thought it was a good idea to leave this house?"
"I had to," I say, trying to sound calm. Reasonable. "There was an emergency I needed to handle. It was important."
"More important than your safety?"
"Yes."
He steps closer. I take an involuntary step back, and my shoulders hit the wall beside the monitors.
"You're infuriating," he says, voice dropping lower. "Stubborn. Reckless. Impossible."
Another step. He's close enough now that I can smell him—clean soap and masculine heat underneath. Close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"You drive me out of my mind," he continues. "I spend every moment wondering where you are, what you're doing, if you're safe. And then you pull a stunt like this. Disappear without telling anyone. Put yourself at risk because you can't follow one simple rule."
