He doesn’t interrupt me. He doesn’t need to. His gaze alone makes the words die in my throat.
Up close, I can see the faint scar that runs along his jaw, just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. His hair is dark, tousled like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours in frustration. There's an aura about him, cold and restrained power, telling me he's the kind of man peopledo notcross.
“You are the tutor,” he finally says, his English flawless despite the slight accent.
I swallow hard. “Y–Yes. Ivy. I just wanted a glass of water. I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
For a beat, he says nothing.
The silence stretches uncomfortably.
Then, finally, he leans back slightly. Something unreadable slips across his features.
“I see,” he says.
My spine relaxes the tiniest bit.
He studies me another moment before saying, “You should go back to your room.”
There’s no threat in his voice, just a command. I recognize it for what it is instantly, even though it’s dressed in civility and wrapped in a layer of careful politeness.
I nod quickly, breath catching in my throat and nearly choking me. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”
I don’t know exactly what I’m apologizing for. Eavesdropping? Walking in on his conversation? Breathing too loudly in his doorway? All of the above, probably.
His gaze stays locked on mine for a second longer. That pale-eyed stare doesn’t waver. I feel pinned by it, cracked open and laid bare in the soft light bleeding from his office behind him.
Then his chin ticks up. “Go.”
That single word launches me into motion like I’ve been yanked by an invisible leash.
I spin on my heel, almost stumbling over my own feet as I retreat the way I came, padding swiftly back down the hallway and up the staircase to the second floor with my heart hammering so hard in my chest, I swear it echoes in the silence of the hallway.
I don’t look back. Not even once.
Even after I’ve made it back to my room, quietly clicking the door shut behind me and leaning back against it as if I’ve just escaped a lion’s den, I can still feel the weight of his stare.
He didn’t introduce himself, though he didn’t need to. I know exactly who he is.
Sergei Sorokin.
My new boss.
What kindof man is Sergei Sorokin?
That question plagues me for the rest of the night, wrapping itself around my every thought as I lie awake in this unfamiliar bed.
What had that conversation been about? I couldn’t understand the words but I understood the tension all the same. The clipped tone, the bite behind each phrase like he had been fighting the urge to enact violence. It hadn’t sounded like business at all. Not normal business, anyway.
What kind of business is Sergei Sorokin actually in?
I think about asking Miss Dori, but what would I even say?“Hi, I think my new employer might be involved in something shady and terrifying. Any chance you forgot to vet him?”
That would go over well. I’d signed a contract.Voluntarily. And unless I wanted to be on the first flight home, and maybe saddled with a broken agreement and none of the money I had been promised, I have to tread carefully.
Surely, he can’t be that bad. Yulia is his daughter. A man who raises a child like that can’t be a monster… right?
But what if someone else raised her? What if there’s a reason her mother isn’t around anymore?
