“But you should have told me before I put you in those meetings,” I grind out. “You should have told me before I brought you into my home.”
Her head jerks up.
“I didn’t ask to be in your home,” she shoots back, louder now, more herself through the wreck of her voice.
And fuck.
That shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does.
But it does.
Because she’s right.
I dragged her in. Into the townhouse. Into my bed. Into my orbit. I kept pulling her closer and closer like I could make the whole world narrow down to just me and her and whatever this thing was between us.
I stare at her and all I can think is: I can’t do this.
I can’t fucking do this.
The air in the room feels wrong. Too tight. Too hot. Her crying still scraping over my nerves, my own thoughts turning vicious and tangled in my skull.
If I stay in here, I’m going to do something I can’t take back.
I straighten so fast the movement makes her jolt.
For one second she looks up at me like she thinks this is it. Like I’m reaching for the gun. Like I’m about to end it.
I can’t even look at her.
I turn and walk out.
Not fast. But every step feels like I’m peeling my own skin off.
I get out of the apartment and into the hallway before I drag my phone out and call Vaska.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
He answers on the third. “Maksim.”
“I need you at Ayla’s apartment.”
Silence.
“What happened?”
My hand curls so hard around the phone my knuckles ache.
I stare at the opposite wall and keep my voice flat by force.
“I can’t do what you said I had to do.”
That gets him quiet. Still in a way that tells me he understands exactly what I mean.
Then Vaska says, “I’ll handle it.”
