He nods. “Yes, Ayla, fun. You’re not just bakery girl are you? You have hobbies I’m sure.”
I huff out a laugh. “Hobbies… I don’t have time for them.”
“Fair. After all you work three jobs.”
I freeze for half a second then nod.
“I do.”
He pulls his knife out of his boot and twirls it between his fingers. “But not anymore, hm.”
“Not anymore.” I echo.
“Must be nice being free from the responsibility now that you have the Pakhan on your side, but you miss your old life a bit… the thrill, the petty theft, the delinquent friends.”
I fold my arms across my chest and smirk. ThePakhan, like it’s a gift to be around Maksim Korsakov.
“What are you saying?”
He smirks, his knife pausing between his middle and pointer finger. “I’m saying, I know the circles you ran in, but are you allowed to still play?”
My eyes narrow. “Play?”
He nods, his eyes lighting up.
This.
The quiet tension.
The eye contact.
The space between me and the only man in this place who might actually choose to hear me… before he decides whether I’m worth keeping. But he wants to make a dance of it.
I don’t answer yet.
I just let my fingers loosen on my thigh and hold Vaska’s stare like I’ve got teeth too.
“You want to spar.”
He chuckles darkly. “Yes. Do you prefer your own knife?”
Oh. Maybe thiswillbe fun.
I slide my hand down slowly, deliberately, letting him watch every inch of the movement so he knows I’m not reaching for anything stupid. My fingers find the familiar leather-wrapped handle tucked inside my right boot. The knife comes out smooth, familiar weight, the blade catching the low lamplight in a single cold line.
Vaska’s smirk deepens—slow, approving.
I twirl the blade once, loose-wristed, the way I used to when Gabriel first forced me to defend myself at thirteen. Then I settle it point-down against my thigh, present.
“We doing this here?” I ask, voice light but edged. “Or will Maksim care if we ruin the furniture?”
Vaska laughs; low, quiet, the sound of someone who doesn’t laugh often but means it when he does. He leans forward, elbows on his knees now, knife still spinning lazy circles between his fingers like it’s an extension of his hand.
“Maksim,” he says, tasting the name, “would care very much if we ruined this furniture. He’s particular about things that belong to him.” His eyes flick to me, deliberate. “Including people.”
The jab lands exactly where he wanted it. I feel my mouth tighten.
He sees it.
