“No.”
“Not even alittle?”
“Not even afractionof a little.”
He sits back, processing this. Like the concept is foreign. Like women don’t tell him no.
They probably don’t.
I back toward the door. “I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not.”
“Watch me.”
I grab my backpack, yank it over my shoulder, and reach for the deadbolt.
His hand slams against the door above my head, holding it shut.
“You’renotleaving until I say you can,” he says, voice low in my ear.
I spin to face him, pressing my back against the door. “Get.Off.”
“Make me.”
We’re inches apart. His breath fans across my face—warm, steady. His eyes are locked on mine, and there’s something in them I can’t read. Something dangerous.
“It’s raining, Beda. Stay.”
“No.”
He steps back.
I don’t wait for him to change his mind.
My hand finds the deadbolt, twists it open. The click echoes in the silence between us. I yank the door open.
The hallway is cold after the warmth of his apartment. I move fast, taking the stairs two at a time, my boots echoing off concrete walls. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my throat, taste it on my tongue.
Behind me, I hear his door close.
He’s not following.
Good.
I burst out into the parking garage when I realize I don’t have my car and that bastard was right itisraining.
I let out a cruel laugh. I have to walk miles home through Bratva territory.
My phone buzzes.
Gabriel
Where are you?
I hesitate answering.
Stay if you’re with him. I want my intel.
