My eyes burn. I blink. Tears fall anyway, quiet and hot, landing on the screen. I don't wipe them away.
My voice breaks despite my effort to hold it together. "You didn't protect me. You decided for me."
"I'm sorry, but that's my job," she claims as the SUV pulls up to my building.
Tension coils low in my abdomen and climbs fast. My body locks, nerves firing all at once.
Aunt Kora's driver opens the door.
She asks, "Do you want to stay at my place?"
"No thanks." I jump out of the SUV and turn. "Thanks for helping me."
She nods. "Are you sure you don't want me to talk to your parents with you?"
"No. It's not time for them to know yet." I turn and lunge toward my building, not wanting to argue with her anymore.
I make my way through the building and step into my apartment, and lean against the door, closing my eyes, trying to remember Red's phone number.
Where is he?
I open my eyes and hold still. The silence presses in, too complete, forcing my attention outward instead of letting it settle. I step away from the door and pause, my gaze moving methodically across the room.
Everything looks untouched, which doesn't help my anxiety. Thechair, the table, and the counter all sit exactly as they should, and the precision makes my chest tighten.
My eyes fall on the knives, and the urge to run a blade over my upper thigh takes hold.
Don't do it,Red's voice says in my head.
I close my eyes again, breathing as he taught me until I feel safe enough to open them. Then I glance around my apartment until the urge fades to an itch. I move farther inside and freeze.
A man sits in the breakfast nook, facing the window, his arm on my dining table, his posture upright, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly in front of him like he's waiting for a meeting to start. A tailored black suit fits him precisely, pressed sharp enough to hold a line, and taut against his broad shoulders. His dark hair is swept back, not a strand out of place.
As if he can see through the back of his head, he turns. "You're home."
My breath stutters. I force it steadily and shove off the door without taking my eyes off him. "Mikhail. How did you get in here?"
He inclines his head slightly. "You gave permission earlier."
I don't remember doing that, and the certainty in his tone tells me it doesn't matter. So I warn, "You don't have permission to be here when I'm not."
He scoots his chair out so his body faces me. His mouth curves slightly as confidence settles in his gaze. "So you say."
I step in front of him, my pulse hammering, and I clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking. "Where is he?"
Mikhail studies me for a moment longer than necessary. "He's being handled."
My jaw tightens. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you get."
My stomach flips. The air between us tightens. I'm not naive to what my family is capable of, and Mikhail might be an attorney, but Ivanovs choose their legal counsel with precision. I threaten, "If you hurt him?—"
"I insulated him."
Anger flares hot and sharp. "You don't get to unravel my life."
His eyes narrow. "You invited attention. Attention invites consequence."
