Was he watching the feed? Talking about me?
Reporting to his boss? Or something else entirely?
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice light, sleepy-soft.
He grunts without looking up. “Morning.”
“What’s for breakfast?”
Ivan jerks his chin toward the tall cupboard beside the fridge. “Take your pick. Cereal’s in there. Milk is in the fridge. Help yourself.”
No offer to cook. No pleasantries. Just grouchy efficiency. I almost smile it’s so predictable.
I open the cupboard. Rows of plain boxes stare back at me—generic corn flakes, bran something-or-other, a sad-looking muesli.
Nothing exciting.
I grab the least offensive box—plain corn flakes, because at least they’re neutral—pour a generous heap into a bowl, and top it with cold milk from the fridge. The spoon clinks against ceramic as I carry it to the table and slide into the chair across from him.
Ivan’s pretending to read something on a tablet now, but I can feel his awareness on me like heat from a stove.
I take a bite, crunching slowly, then decide to poke the bear.
“So… are the cameras around here constantly recording?” I ask it casually, like I’m asking about the weather. “Or do you just flip them on when you need something to watch?”
Ivan flinches. It’s small—just a tiny tightening of his jaw, a fractional dip of his eyelids—but it’s there. Another tell.
He saw.
Hedefinitelysaw last night.
Satisfaction curls warm in my belly and I feel satisfied to have got this one over on him. He might be Mr. Tough Guy Dom, but I can have my own way too.
“None of your business,” Ivan says, voice low and clipped. “All you need to know is there’s no escape. That’sit.”
I roll my eyes, exaggerated enough for him to catch it. “Whatever.”
He doesn’t reply. Just stares at his tablet like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I finish another spoonful, then lean back, spoon dangling from my fingers. “Can I have a coffee? Please?”
He exhales through his nose like I’ve asked him to donate a kidney, but he stands anyway. I watch Ivan move to the espresso machine with the same economical grace he does everything else. Beans grind, water hisses, and thirty seconds later he sets a perfect little demitasse cup in front of me. No foam art, no frills—just rich, dark crema on top.
I wrap my hands around it, inhale deeply. “This smells… amazing.”
He grunts again, his version of “you’re welcome,” apparently, and returns to his seat.
I take a sip.
It’s hot, bitter, perfect. The caffeine hits my bloodstream like a gentle sunrise.
“Okay,” I say, genuine this time. “No messing. You make really good coffee. Like, barista-level good.”
Ivan glances up, surprised for half a second before the mask slams back down.
“It’s just coffee.”
“No, it’s not.” I take another sip, savoring. “Thank you.”
