Her voice is smaller this time.
She stands and heads for the door, pauses.
“I still don’t like you.”
Fair.
But what she says next hits differently.
“But I don’t want you to be scared here, either.”
Scared?
The word lands sideways in my chest. Not because she’s wrong—but because it means shenoticed. Noticed the tension in my shoulders. The way I flinched when she raised her voice. The way I braced for impact when I stepped into a house I don’t belong in.
It means this kid—this sharp, unreadable little human who clearly doesn’t trust me—still doesn’t want me to feel unsafe.
And that? That’s not just something she’s heard. That’s something she’s learned.
Fromwhat, I’m not sure. But I want to know.
And then she’s gone.
And I just stand there, stunned, clutching the hem of my blouse like I need something to hang onto.
Then—
A knock.
Not soft this time.
Heavier. Purposeful.
The voice that follows is laced with steel.
“Isabella.”
My stomach drops.
Because that tone?
That’s not the one he used in bedroom.
Or the hallway.
That’s the one that says:I heard something I wasn’t meant to.
And I’m about to find outexactly what he thinks it means.
15
Bella
Iopen the door and immediately want to shut it again.
Konstantin Belov stands on the other side like some kind of six-foot-four vengeance fantasy dressed in sin and soft cotton. His hair is still damp, pushed back in that careless way that screams: “I don’t need effort, I am the effort.” The tailored black joggers shouldn’t look that good on anyone outside aGQeditorial, and the plain white T-shirt is molded to his chest like it has ideas about belonging there permanently. I can’t help but glare at the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms mapped with tattoos I want to trace with my—
Stop it, Bella.
