Maksim sets a glass of orange juice in front of me.
Trust no one.
He grabs the glass roughly, some orange juice spills. He drinks from it and sets in down on the counter again.
“That shit,” he says pointing at me, “needs to stop.”
I grab the glass and sip from it, letting the orange juice touch my lips, but not really drinking.
“I’m not going to poison you. That’s not how I kill.”
I set the glass down carefully.
“How comforting,” I mutter.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me eat. It’s unnerving. Every bite feels like a performance I didn’t audition for.
“Why are you here?” I ask again between bites. “And don’t tell me it’s for breakfast.”
He straightens and pulls a wallet out of his back pocket.
My wallet.
My head snaps to the front door to my backpack. Open. Unzipped.
The money.
Seventeen thousand dollars.
My pulse roars in my ears.
“What did you do?” I whisper.
His eyes stay on my face as he flips the wallet once in his hand.
“Relax,” he says. “I didn’t touch your money. I don’t need it.”
“Then why do you have my wallet?”
“To be sure you are who you say you are,Ayla Smith.”
I swallow hard. “And?”
“Inconclusive.”
I stab at the pancakes, shoving a piece into my mouth so I don’t have to respond. They’re fluffy. Sweet. The kind of breakfast I haven’t had since before Baba died. The thought makes my throat tight.
“Who taught you to cook?” I ask.
“My mother. Before she stopped giving a fuck.”
The admission hangs in the air between us—raw, unexpected. I glance up at him, but his expression is already closed off again. Whatever window opened just slammed shut.
“These are good,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
I take another bite of pancake.
