My breath catches. “Maksim—”
He plants both palms on the mattress, one on either side of my knees, and lowers himself into my space like he’s closing the distance on purpose. His forehead lines up with the gun.
Then he pushes into it.
Firm.
My stomach drops.
“Do it,” he whispers.
My finger tightens instinctively. “You think I won’t?”
His eyes lock on mine. “I think you can.”
The words hit harder than if he’d laughed.
Harder than if he’d mocked me.
Because there’s no doubt in them. No patronizing edge. No attempt to talk me down.
Just truth.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
He stays there, forehead pressed to the gun, hands flat on the bed, caging me in and offering me the shot at the same time.
“If you want out,” he says, voice flat, almost calm, “take it.”
I stare at him.
He goes on like each word costs him nothing. Like that’s the lie he’s choosing.
“Take the card. Empty what you can. Get on a plane. Don’t go back home. Don’t come back here.”
My mouth parts.
He means it. Or wants me to think he does.
“You wanted to disappear,” he says. “Do it.”
The gun feels heavier all of a sudden.
I hate him.
I hate that he sounds like he knows me.
I hate that he sounds like he’s handing me a future with blood already all over it.
I hate that some ugly, vicious part of me understands exactly why he’d rather offer me an exit than ask me to stay.
“You don’t get to decide that for me either,” I snap.
Something shifts in his face. Small. Quick.
Gone.
Then I see it.
