“He is.” Her response is perhaps more serious than she intended.
“I know he is.”
She pauses at the sincerity of my tone, the honesty in those four words. I clear my throat. Thankfully, she changes the subject.
“That man. The one who was here earlier.”
“Garin.”
Her posture stiffens. “Yes. He seemed intense.”
“That’s one word.”
She glances off to the side, shaking her head. “The way he looked at Sasha…” Amalie trails off, but her tone asks the question she’s too careful to say out loud.
“He’s not stupid enough to threaten my son.”
She arches an eyebrow. “But he’s stupid enough to threaten you?” Her eyes flash after she speaks, her mouth flattening into a hard line. She realizes she might’ve spoken out of turn.
Her words interest me. “How do you know he threatened me?”
She shrugs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t know. Just the vibe I got from him. I didn’t like him one bit.”
Amalie’s astute, no doubt about that. She may not be a part of this world, but she’s got the instincts for it.
“He’s not my favorite person, either. But I’m managing him.”
“Does your way of managing include not telling me anything?”
I raise a brow. “You think this is something you need to know about?”
“If it involves Sasha or me potentially being in danger, then yes. I do.”
“Part of keeping you out of danger involves making sure you know only what you need to.”
She narrows her eyes. Something crackles between us—tension threaded with attraction, frustration, fear, and something else neither of us quite knows what to name.
“I’m not a child, Roman,” she says. “And I’m not fragile.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Her voice raises but trembles at the same time. “I know I’m new to your life, but I don’t want you seeing me as some little girl you need to keep in the dark.”
“My life is dangerous.”
“So are feelings you don’t deal with.”
I blink. She realizes what she said just a second too late. Her face flushes.
“I mean, your situation, your business.” She glances away, nervously sweeping a few strands of hair behind her ear.
“Amalie.”
She swallows. This is when she normally runs—when things get intense, complicated. So, when she steps back, drying her hands once again, too quickly this time, I know exactly what she’s going to do.
“Amalie.”
She doesn’t say a word. Instead, she brushes past me as she steps out of the room. It’s not cold, not rude. It’s her withdrawing herself from the situation.
