And his eyes.
Blue. Same shade as his hair. Sharp and cold and searching the room like he’s cataloging every face, every exit, every potential threat.
Fuck.
Maksim Korsakov.
His gaze sweeps across the bakery.
Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me.Don’t—
“Ayla.”
Damn it.
Those eyes lock onto mine, his mouth curves into a smirk. The snake bites glint as his lips pull wider.
My hand tightens on the cloth. I force myself to breathe. To not run. To not do anything that screams guilty.
I straighten and face him as he walks up to the counter.
“Maks,” Ivan’s voice cuts through the silence. He steps out from behind the espresso machine, shoulders squared, but there’s something deferential in the way he moves. “Didn’t expect you today.”
“Go away, Ivan,” Maksim says, eyes still locked on me.
Ivan’s jaw tightens. For a second, I think he might argue. But he doesn’t. Just gives a curt nod and disappears through the back door.
The other staff scatter like roaches when the lights come on. Cara grabs a tray of dirty dishes and practically runs to the kitchen.
And then it’s just us.
Meand Maksim Korsakov.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my face neutral. Professional. Like I didn’t dig a bullet out of his side four days ago. Like I don’t know exactly what his blood smells like mixed with antiseptic.
“You’re working here now,” he says. Not a question.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Started a few days ago.”
“You’re welcome. How’s the job?” he asks.
He did this?
“It’s fine. Pays the bills.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Does it?”
There’s something in his tone. Something that makes my skin prickle with warning.
“Tips are decent,” I add.
“Hmm.” He drums his fingers on the counter—once, twice. The sound echoes in the now half empty bakery. “You know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying.”
My throat goes dry. “About what?”
