Chapter 32
Ayla
“Why do I have to wear this?” I ask, tugging at the hem of the dress like it might grow longer if I bully it.
The fabric is silk-smooth, deep purple—matching the streaks in my hair like he planned it, and it clings to me like a threat. It’s tight across my ribs, short enough that I feel exposed every time I breathe, and the heels he handed me earlier are black patent torture devices with a strap that feels like it’s laughing at my ankles.
I’m a boots girl. Boots mean I can run. Boots mean I can kick. These mean I can… die elegantly.
I wobble into the kitchen doorway, one hand braced on the frame like I’m entering a crime scene. After a few steps I find the rhythm, small and careful, but I still feel ridiculous. Like I’m wearing someone else’s life.
Maksim stands at the island, back to me. Black button-down, pressed sharp. Sleeves rolled up. Ink crawling down his forearms. Tailored slacks. Put-together in a way that makes him look even more dangerous, just… formal-dangerous. The kind that gets away with things.
“Where are we going?” I ask again, louder.
He turns.
And he’s holding flowers.
Yellow ones. A small, messy bundle tied with rough twine, petals bright and ragged at the edges.
I freeze mid-step. The heels click once, awkwardly.
“What… is that?”
He shoves them toward me without ceremony, like handing over contraband he’s embarrassed to be caught with.
I take them automatically. They’re light. Slightly damp at the stems. A few tiny bugs crawl along one leaf and I flick them off without thinking.
“What do you want me to do with these?”
“They’re for you.”
I stare at him. Then at the flowers. Then back at him.
“Why are you giving me these?”
“They’re dandelions.”
I laugh—short, disbelieving. “No, they’re not.”
“Yes. They are.”
“No. Dandelions are white. Fluffy. You blow on them when you make wishes and the seeds scatter like little parachutes.”
His eyes narrow like I’m making this harder on purpose. “Those aredeaddandelions. These are alive.”
I look down again. The yellow is so bright it almost hurts. Stubborn little suns on sticks.
“Technically weeds,” he adds, voice flat. “I don’t know why you wanted them in the first place.”
“I didn’t want them.”
His jaw ticks. Just once. “When I asked what your favorite flower was, you said dandelion.”
“Vaska asked me that.” I narrow my eyes. “Not you.”
The kitchen goes quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in.
