They look up when I enter. I don’t slow. Neither does the storm building in my chest.
“Dimitri,” I say.
He steps back immediately, wipes his hands on a rag and moves aside.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it at Pietro without looking.
He catches it. I pull my shirt over my head and drop it onto a discarded chair.
The cold air hits my skin. This clears my head.
For a second I can ignore her because this is simple. This is where I thrive.
Pain. Question. Answer.
Repeat.
Except—there it is.
Her scent. Sweet.
Those damn marshmallow messing with my process. It threads through the metallic air and gets under my skin. I glance over my shoulder.
Pietro is pulling a chair out for her.
She smiles at him. Small, but polite.
Something ugly coils in my gut. I don’t like men seeing her smile.
“Ivanov. Go,” I say to Pietro.
He hesitates half a second. Looks at her. Then at me before leaving. The door shuts. Silence stretches. Just the bastards ragged breathing.
And her.
Watching.
I grab the man by the hair, yank his head up. His face is ruined—swollen eyes, split lip, blood dripping down his chin.
“You’re going to try again,” I tell him, voice calm.
He spits.
I don’t blink.
My fist cracks across his face, bone giving under my knuckles. His head snaps sideways, blood splattering the floor.
I look at her.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t shrink.
She just watches.
I don’t like when I can’t read her.
I don’t like what that does inside me.
I close the space between us, grab her chair by the seat, and drag it closer.
