I stand too fast. My chair scrapes against the floor. A few heads turn—not many, but enough to make my skin prickle.
Konstantin?
He doesn’t move.
Just watches.
Waits.
Like he already knows.
I spin toward the exit—
And then, his voice hits me like a bullet.
“You think you can walk away?”
I freeze.
Every hair on my arms stands on end.
The way he says it—calm, casual, inevitable—makes my pulse jump to my throat.
I turn back slowly.
Konstantin exhales, sets his drink down, and rises.
It’s slow. Unhurried.
But suddenly, he’s there.
Towering. Blocking my exit.
I take a step back.
I hit the wall.
His hands come up, bracing on either side of my head—not touching me, but caging me in.
I feel him everywhere.
The heat of his body. The scent of smoke and something darker.
The sheer weight of him, suffocating and steady and utterly immovable.
“It’s too late,” he murmurs, voice like a slow, creeping tide.
I shove against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. Not an inch.
I glare up at him, furious, breathless, fucking drowning. “You can’t just keep me here.”
His lips curve. Just slightly. Just enough.
“No?” His voice is low, dark, amused. “Tell me, Isabella—where exactly would you go?”
My stomach drops.
Because he’s right.
