“Hm.”
My knife. I need my knife. It’s by the front door, in my boot. Too far.
“Don’t,” he drawls.
My eyes meet his.
“What are you doing here?” I ask again.
He leans back on his palms, relaxed, unbothered—like this is normal. Like he didn’t break into my apartment while I slept.
“Go freshen up,” he says. “Then we’ll have breakfast.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He stands. The movement is smooth, like he’s in no rush. He steps out of my door-less room and down the hall like this place is already mapped in his head, disappearing into the kitchen nook.
Panic finally punches through.
I scramble off the bed and bolt for the bathroom, locking the door behind me with shaking hands.
I press my forehead against the door, trying to steady my breathing.
Maksim Korsakov is in my apartment.
In my kitchen.
Withbreakfast?
What the actual fuck.
I need to defend myself.
I look around my tiny box of a bathroom. A toothbrush. A razor—the disposable kind you buy in a pack of ten. I pick it up, turn it over, thumb brushing the plastic.
Could I break it?
The blade would be small. Close combat. He’s bigger. Stronger. Faster. My stomach twists.
I drop it.
No time.
I turn on the faucet, splash cold water on my face. The shock helps. A little. I catch my reflection in the mirror—messy hair, dark circles. I exhale.
this can’t be happening.
How did he get in? My locks aren’t exactly Fort Knox, but they’re not nothing. He must’ve picked them.
He’s the fucking Pakhan of the Bratva, of course he picked them.
I brush my teeth, trying to buy time.
What if he knows?
My stomach drops.
