Dmitri.
Thinking about you, solnyshko. Dinner tomorrow?
I stare at the message.
My thumbs move before I can stop them.
You're always thinking about me. It's creepy.
His response comes immediately.
You like it.
The worst part?
He's not wrong.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Not dinner.
I start walking toward my room, watching the three dots appear.
What do you want then?
I pause at my bedroom door, leaning against the frame.What do I want?That's the question, isn't it? I want to stop thinking about him every time I close my eyes. Want to stop remembering the weight of his hand on my throat in that restaurant bathroom, the way his voice dropped when he called mesolnyshko.
I want to see him somewhere that isn't his territory. Somewhere he can't control every variable.
Theater.
The response takes too long.
I count the seconds. Five. Ten. Fifteen. My grin widens.
I bet you've never stepped foot in a theater.
Inside my room, I kick off my shoes and collapse onto my bed. The sheets are cool against my back. My phone buzzes.
I'll take you to the opera if that's what you want.
I bark out a laugh. The image of Dmitri Baganov—six-foot-something of Bratva muscle in his suits, hands that have definitely broken bones—sitting through three hours of Greek tragedy is almost too good.
You? Sitting still for an entire opera? I'll believe it when I see it.
As long as you're there, I'll sit through anything.
My breath catches.
Damn him.
I roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow. What the hell does this man do to me? One minute he's threatening to murder anyone who looks at me, the next he's promising to endure opera just to spend time with me.
I grab my phone again, desperate for distraction.
You're a sweety pie.
I hit send before I can overthink it. The words are deliberately ridiculous—the kind of thing you'd say to a golden retriever, not a man like him.
