I pick the far end of the sectional—the one that gives me a view of the room, the exits, the hallways. I lower myself like I’m calm. Like I’m not counting angles.
My phone is in my pocket. I can feel it like a heartbeat.
But I don’t reach for it.
Vaska drops into the chair across the coffee table legs relaxed, elbow resting on the arm, posture loose.
Too loose.
It’s a trick. A predator pretending he isn’t one.
He studies me the way a man studies a weapon he doesn’t know if he can use.
Assessing me.
I hate that more than when men look with hunger.
Because hunger is simple. It’s stupid.
Assessment is intelligent. And intelligence is dangerous.
For a few seconds, nothing happens.
No interrogation. No sudden violence. No “tell me what you’re doing here.”
Just the hum of the air conditioner and our breaths.
Vaska’s gaze stays on me.
“Don’t look so offended,” he says finally.
“He didn’t leave you because he doesn’t care,” he adds, voice low enough that it’s only for me. “About his little pet.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
I don’t answer.
Because if I answer wrong, it becomes a conversation I didn’t agree to have.
Vaska’s mouth twitches like he can read that thought anyway.
“He left you here,” he continues, “because he thinks this is safer than the townhouse.”
I almost laugh.
Because the townhouse felt like a cage. This feels like a fortress. A fortress Maksim should be in. He should rule from here.
I would.
I angle my head, just slightly. “So I’m safe.”
It comes out flat.
Vaska’s eyes flick over my face like he’s measuring my tone.
“Safe,” he repeats, and there’s something in it—something that sounds like the word means different things to different men.
His gaze drops to my hands in my lap. Then back to my eyes.
