“Careful, Beda,” he murmurs. “You point that at me again, you better be ready to pull the trigger this time.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Then do it.”
His voice is low, goading. He steps in that last inch, chest pressed so tight to mine now, daring me.
My fingers brush the grip.
The tension snaps tight, a wire ready to break. My heart is pounding so hard I hear it in my ears.
A floorboard creaks in the hall.
Both our heads whip toward the sound.
My hand closes fully around the gun, sliding it from my waistband as I pivot, muscle memory taking over.
Maksim moves just as fast, hand going to the holster at his side.
The moment Vaska steps into the kitchen, he’s met with two barrels pointed straight at him.
Mine.
And Maksim’s.
Vaska stops dead.
His brows lift. A slow grin pulls at his mouth as he raises both hands, palms out.
“Oh,” he says lightly, eyes flicking between us, “this is interesting.”
I lower my gun first.
Slowly.
My eyes stay on Vaska, but I feel Maksim beside me—rigid, coiled tight. His gun doesn’t drop as fast as mine.
When it finally does, the movement is sharp. Irritated.
“Vaska,” Maksim says, and there’s a flatness to it that makes my skin prickle.
A warning.
Vaska’s grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, dropping his hands. His eyes slide to me, then back to Maksim. “Looked...intense.”
I tuck the gun back into my waistband.
Maksim doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
The silence stretches just long enough to feel like a blade.
“Wait in the bedroom,” Maksim says.
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.
My head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”
