“It confuses you,” he says. “That I can do what I do and still hold back.”
“Yes,” I admit. “It really does.”
His gaze stays on me, steady and unblinking. “You expect one kind of monster.”
“You think you’re a monster?” The question slips out, softer than I intend.
He considers me for a long moment. “I know what people call men like me.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He does not answer. Instead, his attention drops to my notebook again. He does not reach for it, even though we bothknow he could take it out of my hands in a second. He lets it sit between us like a neutral piece of evidence.
“You keep trying not to scare me,” I say.
His eyes lift back to mine. “Is that what you think?”
“You could have put a gun to my head,” I say. My throat tightens, but I keep talking. “You could have had your men tie me up. You could have treated me much worse, butyou keep… stopping. Pulling back. It looks like restraint.”
“Would you prefer I didn’t restrain myself?” he asks.
Fear skates cold along my spine. “No. I’d prefer you never needed to in the first place.”
That lands between us like a weight.
For several seconds, he says nothing. The silence stretches, but it does not feel empty. It feels like a test. He studies my face with that same laser focus he had in the warehouse, as if he is searching for an answer I do not know I am giving.
His movements are not soft. They are precise. When he reaches for his coffee, his hand does not shake. When he leans back in the chair, his shoulders stay aligned, his posture straight. He reminds me of a blade sheathed inside a suit, waiting for the right moment to cut.
My mind keeps trying to reconcile him with the bullets and blood in that alley. With the articles about the Sharov family and the missing men tied to them. With Clara’s name, still unanswered on my phone.
At the same time, another truth keeps creeping in.
He didn’t have to grab me off the street personally. He did not have to send me home afterward. He did not have to stand between me and his own men with that quiet command that said no one touched me without his permission.
He doesn’t fit into any category I know. Not predator. Not protector. Somewhere in between. Something worse.
“Does my family scare you?” he asks suddenly.
“Yes,” I say. There is no point lying.
He watches me carefully. “And me?”
I hesitate, because the answer is harder.
“You scare me,” I say slowly, “but not the way I thought you would.”
His expression tightens, almost imperceptibly. “How did you think I would?”
“Loud. Obvious. Unhinged.” I swallow. “You’re none of those things.”
“What am I, then?”
I shake my head. “That’s what I’m still trying to figure out.”
Something in his gaze shifts. Not softer. Not kinder. More focused, if that is even possible. He seems almost interested in my confusion, like it is a puzzle he didn’t expect to enjoy.
He stands after a while and crosses to the window again. The distance helps, but it does not erase the awareness thrumming under my skin. When he is near, I feel the danger in every breath. When he steps away, I feel the space like a phantom touch.
