“What areyoutalking about, Ayla?”
His gaze goes still in a way that’s worse than anger.
Recognition.
“Kills,”he hisses voice quiet.
I don’t breathe.
His pupils swallow the blue.
“Kills,” he says again, slower. “Why wouldyouhave to kill that many people?”
He’s putting it together. The running. The scars. The way I always know where the doors are. He’s going to see me. All of me.
I’m fucked.
“Self-defense,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Big city. Shitty part of town.”
He doesn’t blink. “Where do you put the bodies, Ayla?”
The way he says my name—no nickname, no humor, makes my spine go rigid.
I meet his eyes. Hold the stare. Make myself steel.
“Where do you putyours,Maksim?”
For a beat, neither of us moves.
Then he leans back, slow and practiced, like I passed some kind of test. The smirk returns, smaller, sharper. Almost approving.
“Fair enough,” he murmurs.
His eyes flick to my mouth, then back up. Like he’s already decided how he’s going to claim whatever secrets I’m still hiding.
The waiter sets the dessert menus down with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
Neither of us looks at him.
The menus sit between us, untouched. The jazz keeps playing somewhere overhead, soft and meaningless, like the whole restaurant exists in another world.
Maksim is still watching me.
Calculating.
Like he’s sorting pieces of a puzzle in his head and deciding where they fit. His fingers tap once against his glass. Slow. Thoughtful.
“Twenty,” he says quietly.
The word lands heavy between us, cataloged.
Filed.
My jaw tightens.
“Don’t,” I say.
