Instead, I keep replaying Ivan's fingers tracing blood across my knuckles, his voice rough and stripped down.
The elevator doors open.
The penthouse is dark. Ivan doesn't reach for a switch; he moves through the space as if he knows it by the feel of the air currents. I follow him, because following is what I do.
He stops in front of the master bathroom.
"Get in the shower," he commands.
Quiet. Certain. No extra words. No softness. A command that doesn't need volume to be obeyed.
"You're covered in them."
I look down.
My clothes are stiff with dried blood, crusted dark across my chest. When I shift my shoulders, I feel the fabric crack. The smell is copper, sweat, and old heat. Some of it is mine; most of it belongs to men who aren't breathing anymore.
I should tell him I can handle this. I should go to the guest bathroom. That's the world I understand: I protect, I maintain distance, I disappear.
But my hands shake again, giving me away.
My ribs flare when I breathe too deeply.
Ivan pushes the bathroom door open and gestures for me to enter.
I go.
The bathroom is adorned with white marble and chrome, lit by the city's glow filtering through frosted glass. The shower is a glass box, large enough to be a room of its own. I've used it in the mornings—quick and silent, using his soap because he told me to.
Tonight isn't morning.
I reach for the fastenings on my vest. My fingers fumble with the clasp; they feel thick and clumsy. I force the latch open. The vest comes off, followed by the ruined shirt beneath it.
The shirt sticks where blood has dried into the fabric. When I pull it over my head, it tears with a soft ripping sound.
My skin is mapped with bruises. The mark on my ribs has spread, darkening under the lights. Smaller impacts dot myforearms. A shallow cut on my shoulder leaks slowly, just enough to keep the skin tacky.
I reach for my belt.
I stop.
Ivan is still in the doorway.
"You should—" I start, but the words snag.You should leave. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be looking at me like that.
"I should what?" he asks.
His voice is soft in a way that tightens my stomach. Not gentle. Not cold. Something else.
I don't answer.
I unfasten my belt, pushing my pants down and stepping out of them and my boots. The movement sends a bright lance of pain through my ribs, making me inhale sharply. My vision sharpens at the edges.
I find myself in nothing but briefs, standing in Ivan Baranov's bathroom, blood drying on my skin.
Ivan doesn't look away.
I step into the shower and turn on the water. It hits cold at first, shocking my tight muscles. Then it warms. Steam begins to rise.
