“But,” he continues, rising smoothly to his feet, “he’s not here. And I’m curious how sharp that delinquent mouth really is when it’s allowed to bite.”
I stand too. Slower. Keeping the coffee table between us for now.
“You’re doing this because he told you to test me,” I state. “See if I’m loyal. See if I’ll fold under pressure.”
Vaska tilts his head, amused all the way down to the bones. “You think I need orders to play with a pretty little orphan?”
I falter, he catches it.
Orphan.That means he ran my background, got the story Gabriel’s planted to make sure there’s no ties to him. Good.
He steps around the table.
I match him—circling the other way. We’re orbiting now, the gun forgotten on the wood between us.
“I think,” I say, “you’re doing exactly what the Pakhan expects. Keep the pet entertained. Keep her from getting ideas.”
He stops. So do I.
Then he moves—fast, fluid, a feint with the knife that isn’t even aimed at me, just close enough to make me react. I twist, blade coming up instinctively, but he’s already inside my guard, forearm catching my wrist in a grip that’s firm but not bruising.
Yet.
“Wrong,” he murmurs, breath warm against my ear. “I’m doing this because you’re fun. And because I like seeing how long it takes someone to figure out if they’re caged or not.”
I wrench my arm free—harder than necessary, and slash low, not deep, just enough to nick the inside of his forearm when he doesn’t quite pull back in time.
A thin red line wells up immediately.
Vaska looks down at it. Then at me.
Then he brings his arm to his mouth, slow, deliberate, and licks the blood off the cut. Tongue flat against skin. Eyes never leaving mine.
My stomach flips; half revulsion, half something darker. He smiles around the taste of it.
“Nice,” he says softly. “Clean. Quick. You’ve done this before.”
I don’t answer. My pulse is loud in my ears.
He lowers his arm. The cut’s already clotting—shallow, showy, nothing serious.
“You remind me of him, you know,” he says, quieter now. The game pauses, just for a breath.
I blink. “Maksim?”
Vaska nods once. “When he was younger. Before the title. Before the weight. Hungry.Angry.Always waiting for the next person to try and take something from him.” He studies me like he’s seeing through layers I didn’t know I had. “You’ve got that same look. Like the world already tried to kill you once and you’re pissed it didn’t finish the job.”
My chest twists sharp.
I swallow. “I’m nothing like him.”
“You are,” Vaska says simply. “That’s why he keeps you close. Has he fucked you?”
The words hang there.
The question is crude on purpose; meant to shake me, meant to see what I do with it.
Vaska steps back—giving me space again, giving me the illusion of control.
