I watched, pulse hammering as I counted each one of her steps from the train to her door, my lungs burning with the air I held back until the lights in her windows flickered on. Safe.
For now.
But how long does safe last?
I push myself up from the floor. My joints snap and complain, each stretch alien, as if I’m only puppeteering this body from a distance.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water across my cheeks, refusing to meet my reflection. I don’t need to see the traitorous woman staring back. The one who kissed the man threatening her best friend.
I shake droplets from my face.
I need to stop thinking like that. So final. So defeatist.
I’ve been through worse. Delivered myself from hell.
So I can do this.
The lock on the bedroom door clicks.
I freeze as water trickles down my throat in slow, cold lines.
He’s coming. The machine disguised as a man.
With my pulse pounding, I slip back to the bedroom and plant myself near the desk.
An idea needles through the fog, reckless and weak, but it’s all I’ve got. If I can just make it work, maybe I’ll find a way out.
Maybe I can warn Ashley and then leave town. Start a new life elsewhere. As a nomad.
The door swings open.
Kirill enters with a tray in his hand. His gaze lands on me like a searchlight before measuring out the room. Clocking every inch. Not a single detail escapes him. He sets the tray on the desk, his movements clinical, distilled down to nothing but purpose. Not even the tiniest gesture wasted.
“Eat.” He starts to leave.
Now.
I have to do this now.
I lunge forward and stumble, my hip slamming into the desk. The tray rattles. Coffee surges over the rim of the mug in a brown arc. The plate tilts, slides, and crashes. Silverware leaps from the tray and scatters across hardwood.
I release a sharp gasp, and my hands flutter around the mess.
“I’m sorry! I’m so clumsy.” The words are involuntary and almost laughably obvious, but I roll with them. I drop to my knees and dart my fingers along the floor. Shards of plate. Fork. Spoon. I close my hand around the butter knife and tuck the blade against my palm, hiding the utensil under the pretense of cleaning up.
He looms above me. Silent.
Watching.
I don’t look up because I can’t make myself meet his stare. Does he see through this? Does he recognize the theater in every motion? Notice the lie in the twitch of my hands?
It’s not a lie. Just a…ritual exercise in drama.
“Really. I’m so sorry.” I gather the ruined plate, stacking the jagged ceramic and setting the silverware on top, methodical even as my hands tremble. The butter knife slides up my sleeve in a cool shiver of metal against skin. I don’t let myself check if it’s visible. Movement would betray me.
A sliver of ceramic rests on the floor beside his foot. My fingers brush his boot as I sweep the piece closer. My gaze flicks up.
Dark jeans hug his thighs, which areright here, just centimeters from my face. If I wanted to, I could lean forward and touch my lips to his fly.
