Hate that some part of me—small and desperate and so tired of fighting—feels safe here.
Inside, the townhouse is clean, modern, beautiful.
Expensive in that understated way rich people prefer.
He carries me straight to the bedroom and sets me down on the bed gently. Too gently.
“Stay here,” he orders.
“Where else would I go?”
He smirks faintly. “Knowing you? Out the window.”
I almost smile.
I sit there, staring at the door, trying to process everything that just happened. Moronov’s questions. The tests. The way Maksim looked at me when he saw the bruises.
Humiliating.
Maksim returns carrying clothes—soft gray sweats and a t-shirt that looks about ten sizes too big for me.
“Here,” he says, setting them on the bed. “Change.”
I stare at them. “I’m fine in this.”
“I don’t know whose clothes you’re wearing, but I want them off of you.”
There’s something in his voice—something dark and possessive that makes my pulse kick.
“Turn around,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
“Maksim.”
“I’ve already seen you in your underwear, Beda.Multipletimes.”
My face heats despite myself. “That doesn’t mean—”
“Fine.” He turns, leaving the room “You have two minutes.”
I don’t waste time arguing.
I peel off Emir’s hoodie, wincing as the fabric drags across bruised skin. The leggings are worse—every movement pulls at my ribs, makes me want to curl up and stop.
I put on the clothes he gave me. They smell like him.
Annoying.
I lay on the bed, the mattress is so soft it might as well be a cloud. My eyes fall shut before I can control it. My instinct screaming that it’s not safe to sleep here.
Not with Maksim returning in minutes. Not without my knife.
But my body sinks deeper and truly, I don’t care what happens. Maybe in this soft darkness I can be free.
I stir to a cool hand at my forehead and a low murmur I don’t quite catch. Pain flares when I shift, then warmth settles over me again. I’m gone before I can fight it.
I wake again to my name.
