His steps always come hard, like the floor should brace for him. These are quieter. Slower. Deliberate enough that my stomach drops before I even see him.
Vaska.
For one second, all I can do is stare.
He fills the doorway without trying to. Dark hair. Dark eyes that look black from here, empty and flat in his face in a way that makes it hard to remember they’re human eyes at all.
This isn’t Vaska who sparred with me. Who looked at me as Maksim’s pet.
No.
This is the Vaska the world gets. Everybody knows his moniker, but you don’t feel what it means until he’s in front of you. You don’t say it out loud. Not unless death is already in the room.
Reaper.
The Bratva’s executioner.
And Maksim has sent him to reap me.
He looks at me once.
That’s all.
No expression. No curiosity. No anger. Nothing I can use to read him.
He walks right past me. I go cold all over. That’s worse.
Much worse.
Because if he was going to yell, I’d know where to put my fear. If he was going to hit me, I’d know how to brace. If he pulled a knife right away, at least I’d understand the shape of what comes next.
But this—
This feels like the pause before something ruthless.
He disappears down the hall toward the bathroom like I’m not even worth acknowledging yet, and I can hear cabinet doors opening. Closing. Something plastic shifting. Metal knocking lightly against porcelain.
My heart starts slamming harder against my ribs.
I look at the front door.
Toofar.
Pointless to run.
By the time he comes back, there’s a white first aid kit in one hand.
My throat tightens. He sets it on the coffee table. Still says nothing. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his knife.
The breath catches in my chest so fast it hurts.
He flips it once between his fingers, the motion so smooth it makes my skin prickle. The light catches on the edge for half a second.
I stop breathing.
He crouches in front of me.
Not close enough to touch anywhere that matters. Just close enough that I can see his eyes properly now.
