My fingers catch at the edge of the clear bandage on my hip. Under the film, something dark blurs beneath trapped fluid—ink, maybe blood, maybe both. My pulse is so loud now it drowns everything else out.
“What the fuck—”
The words barely make it out.
He doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t move either. That’s what does it. That stillness. That waiting.
My eyes snap to his pillow.
Then I’m moving.
I lunge across the bed, yank the pillow up, and wrap my hand around the grip of his gun.
“Maksim—”
I whirl back toward him, dragging the sheet with me, already bringing the gun up. By the time I’m on my knees in the middle of the mattress, hair wild, shirt shoved up my thigh, arm locked straight, the barrel is aimed right between his eyes.
My chest heaves.
He looks at the gun. Then back at me.
And says nothing.
His silence burns through me like acid.
I’m trembling now, hands unsteady on the gun but not enough to matter at this range. Every part of my brain is screaming, racing to catch up while adrenaline floods my system.
“What did you do to me?” My voice sounds strange in my ears—thin, cracking at the edges. “Maksim, what the fuck did youdo?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just watches me with those cold blue eyes, tracking every shake, every breath.
“Why don’t you look at it,” he finally says.
The words land like stones. Flat. Final.
“No.” I press the muzzle of the gun harder into the air between us. “Tell me what you did while I was sleeping.”
His mouth curves, just barely. Not a smile. Something worse.
“You weren’t sleeping,” he says quietly. “You passed out.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“The vodka.” He nods once toward the empty bottle on the nightstand. “You drank too much, even you said you were drunk.”
I feel the color drain from my face. My finger twitches against the trigger.
“Did you drug me?” The words come out hollow with disbelief. “Did you fuckingdrugme?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just steps closer.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Until the barrel is nearly touching him.
