Dead.
She’s talking to a guy.
Some random asshole lingering outside the diner. Lean build. Clean jacket. Hands in his pockets. She’s smiling at him—small, quick, unguarded.
Her face lights up.
And for half a second, it hits me wrong.
She’s…pretty.
I blink.
Sharp pretty. The kind that cuts if you’re not paying attention.
I shake it off.
She laughs at something he says. Easy. Unafraid. The gesture is so casual, so easy, that my chest tightens.
Who the fuck is this guy?
I close the distance. My boots hit the pavement hard.
His hand crawls up her arm.
Her smile turns wicked.
She’s quick.
Knee to his balls, he crumbles and she walks off like she didn’t just destroy his lineage.
I catch up to her.
“What happened?”
She scoffs, sharp and humorless, not slowing.
“I got fired,” she says. “What do you think happened?”
“I meant with that guy.”
She spins on me then, eyes flashing.
“Fuck that guy. I now come with my own personal Maksim Korsakov.That’san issue. Especially when you’re assaulting people in public.”
“She assaulted you first.”
She shrugs. Like it’s nothing.
“She always does. She’s a bitch. It is what it is.”
Always.
The word sinks in slow and heavy, settling somewhere it shouldn’t.
I don’t like that.
My jaw tightens. “She’s done that before?”
