Fuck he knows.
He steps back and my mind goes blank.
He brought me here to murder me because heknows.
I look down, I’m standing on a large rug,of course.He could shoot me here, roll up my body, easy clean up.
Probably plastic or a tarp underneath.
I look up and he’s—
Shirtless?
Clean gauze still over the wounds I patched up
“What are you doing?”
My voice comes out low, unsteady. Like the air’s too thick to breathe.
“Giving you what you want.” He drops his shirt onto the couch behind him like it’s nothing. “Me.”
“I don’t want you,” I say.
My voice sounds strange in the stillness of his apartment—too loud, too thin, like it doesn’t belong to me. Like maybe if I say it again, it’ll become more true.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You sure about that?”
Before I can answer, he steps closer.
My pulse stutters. I take a step back.
He follows.
I reach for the strap of my backpack like it’s armor, but he grabs it, lifts it clean off me like it weighs nothing, and lets it drop to the floor.
“Maksim,” I warn, trying to keep my voice steady.
He brushes his knuckles across my cheek. The touch is light. Gentle, almost. But it makes my stomach turn.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “You want methatbad?”
“No.” I pull back. “Idon’twant you.”
But he’s already moving again, herding me toward the wall with lazy, predatory steps. I try to sidestep, but he cuts me off. The back of my thighs hit the exposed brick.
I swing.
He catches my wrist mid-air, slams it above my head. Then the other. His body presses into mine, caging me in. The brick is cold against my back. He’s burning at my front.
“You fight like you’ve done it before.”
“Let me go.”
“Don’t want to.”
He dips his head, nose skimming my jaw. I turn away, but he releases a wrist to grab my chin and forces me back to him.
“Maksim—” I start.
