“Why would I do that?”
A hiss, then a loudclank.I wince, pressing my nose with the back of my hand like that’ll make me invisible.
“Because it’s polite? Because I might have been naked? Because normal people don’t just appear in other people’s living spaces like ghosts?”
“I’m not normal people.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“Still rude,” I mutter, giving the side of the machine a sharp knock like it’s the office printer that always jams on me.
“You’ll get used to it.”
The words come from directly behind me. I freeze. He’s close. So close I catch the faint bite of his aftershave, sharp and clean, cutting through the smell of burned coffee. My breath tangles in my chest.
Anton reaches around me, one big hand flipping a switch I somehow missed, the other guiding mine away from the buttons like I’m a toddler about to set the kitchen on fire. The machine whirs obediently under his touch, dark coffee dripping into the tiny porcelain cup.
The confidence in his voice is both infuriating and oddly comforting, like he’s already planning our long-term cohabitation arrangement.
I can’t look at him. I stare at the stream filling the cup, nerves crawling under my skin. He finally steps back, but not before his fingers brush mine as he takes the mug. Electricity bolts up my arm like I just stuck a finger in a socket.
He takes a slow sip, like it’s the best damn coffee he’s ever had, then sets the mug down just out of my reach.
“Make your own cup.” His mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smirk.
I blink at him.Seriously?
Fine. I shuffle back to the machine, replaying every move he just made like it’s a test I’ll fail if I breathe wrong. Switch, knob, button. The machine hums, obedient this time. Coffee drips steadily into the cup. I feel his eyes on me the whole time, and when I finally risk turning toward him, he’s leaning against the counter like this is a show he ordered on demand.
“Ready for work?” he asks, casual, as if he hasn’t just fried my nervous system for fun.
“I guess. How am I getting there?”
“I’m driving you.”
The matter-of-fact way he says it makes my spine straighten. “Every day?”
He doesn’t answer. Just takes a sip of coffee and watches me over the rim.
“I can take the bus,” I say. “Or an Uber. I don’t need—”
“People want you dead, Mary.”
The words hit the air like a slap. Casual. Conversational. He could be commenting on the weather instead of my mortality rate.
“Right. Dead. Got it.”
He sets down his mug and stands. All six feet three inches of him unfolding with predatory grace. Takes a step toward me.
Then another.
I back up instinctively, but there’s nowhere to go. The kitchen island traps me, and suddenly, he’s right in front of me.
“You seem nervous,” he observes.
“You seem… close.”
Too close. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough to notice the small scar through his left eyebrow that makes him look even more dangerous.
