“I need the bathroom,” I say, swinging my legs out of bed. The sheet drops. Her gaze drops with it before she jerks it back up, cheeks going scarlet.
“Use it then,” she mutters, clutching the towel tighter. “I’m done.”
I walk straight past her, close enough that my chest brushes her damp shoulder. Her skin goosebumps under the light touch.
“Relax, solnyshko.” I lean down so my mouth is near her ear. “If I was going to break our deal, I’d pick somewhere more comfortable than cold tile.”
She shivers.
In the bathroom, I shave while she dithers by the sink, pretending she has nowhere else to go. Straight razor in my hand, foam on my jaw. In the mirror I can see her watching every stroke like she’s imagining a blade at my throat.
“Enjoying the view?” I ask, dragging the razor down my neck.
She jumps. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” I rinse the blade. “You watch everything. It’s what scientists do.”
Her eyes drop to my throat again. The attention feels like a touch.
Good.
When I’m done, I wipe my face with a towel and turn to her.
“You can drop the towel,” I say mildly. “Or go get dressed. Either way, breakfast is in fifteen minutes. Wear something that says ‘untouchable’.” I pause. “And remember it’s a lie.”
She glares at me and stomps into the closet.
* * *
I’m still smiling when I walk into the dining room.
Galina went overboard, like always when she’s nervous. The table is covered. Syrniki, smoked fish, caviar, black bread, omelets, and fruit. Enough food to feed the whole crew. It’s just the two of us.
Anya sits at the far end in dark trousers, cream sweater, black jacket, hair braided wet down her back. No makeup. She still looks like trouble.
I sit opposite her, close enough we can talk without shouting, far enough that she can pretend she’s not aware of every move I make.
“Your brother’s plane landed in Brussels two hours ago,” I say as I pour tea. “He’s at the school. Volkov security is on-site.”
Her fork stops halfway to her mouth. “Is he… is it nice? The school?”
“Expensive,” I say. “Which usually means nice.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Nyet.”
Her head snaps up. “Why not?”
“Because anyone listening to my calls doesn’t need to know the name of the school your brother is at,” I answer calmly. “Because the Chechens have good hackers. Because your father talks when he’s drunk. Because distance keeps Mishka alive.”
She looks sour. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
“You got what matters,” I say. “He’s out. He’s safe. He’ll be pissed at you, but he’ll live long enough to get over it.”
Her eyes shine, but no tears fall.
“My father?” she asks quietly. “You said the debt—”
