My eyes snap open.
Someone is in my apartment.
No.
Someone is on mybed.
I jolt upright, blanket sliding down into my lap.
Maksim Korsakov.
My gaze drifts to his hands.
My stuffed bunny, perched in his lap.
Instinct takes over—I snatch the bunny from his grip and fling it aside without even looking where it lands.
My heart is already slamming against my ribs.
Too loud. Too fast.
Embarrassment flares, hot and stupid and completely unwelcome because that’s what my body reacts to first.
Not the man in my apartment. Not the fact that Maksim Korsakov is sitting on my bed like he owns it.
Just—
My bunny.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
His mouth twitches.
“Boy underwear again,” he says casually, eyes flicking to my lap.
I glance down before I can stop myself. Tank top. Soft cotton. My favorite pair, the stupid gray ones I stole from a thrift-store men’s rackbecause they’re comfortable and don’t pinch. The blanket barely covers my thighs now.
I yank it higher.
“Don’t look at me,” I bite.
“Too late.”
I glare at him. “Why are you in my house?”
“Don’t be hostile, Krolik.”
My spine goes rigid.
“Don’t call me bunny.”
His brows lift. “You speak Russian.”
“No,” I say immediately. Too fast. “I inferred.”
It’s a lie, I understand enough of it.
His eyes narrow a fraction—sharp, assessing. Like a blade sliding free.
