It matters, you know?
You don’t just saunter up to a contract killer and ask for a cruller.
Or do you?
Me: You got eyes on him?
Callum: Yep. Having medovik and staring right at him. You’re gonna love this shit. Sweet like your ass.
I roll my eyes.
Callum’s a menace. A man who should never be put on speaker, never be allowed near a church, and never, under any circumstances, be your plus one to a company picnic.
But goddamn, I love him.
Am I jealous he gets to sit in the bakery, making eyes at Volkov, eating honey cake fed to him by hands the size of bear paws?
Yes. Yes, I am.
But also no.
I’m entering Vitaly’s domain.
This time, I’ll find something. This time, I’ll figure him out.
Because a man like Vitaly fucking Volkov is not just a baker.
He’s got a tall privacy fence. The kind that says, ‘I value my solitude,’ or possibly, ‘I need to keep my enemies from seeing where I bury the bodies.’
Either way, it’s convenient for me.
His doors?
Fortress-level secure.
His locks?
State-of-the-art.
His windows?
Practically an invitation.
The man leaves his bedroom window cracked open every night. Not even latched.
Like he wants me to slip inside.
Curl up in his sheets.
Breathe in his secrets.
That’s a dangerous thing to do in a world full of lunatics.
His windows are tall and wide, which is lucky, because I may be bendy, but I’m still soft in all the right places. Little windows would pose a problem for my curves.
And let’s be honest, if I got stuck crawling into my future husband’s house, it would be a real mood killer.
I hoist myself up with practiced ease.
