I hate that it’s good.
I hate that he’s standing there watching me eat with those cold blue eyes that seem to see everything I’m trying to hide.
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I ask around a mouthful.
“Calling you what?”
“Beda. Trouble.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “I told you before that’s what you are.”
“I’m not trouble. I’m just trying to survive.”
“Same thing.”
I set down my fork. “No, it’s not.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re hiding something. I’m going to find out what it is, so eat and then we’re going for a ride.”
I swallow.
Now I get why he cooked for me.
My last meal.
Chapter 13
Maksim
She’s quiet.
Ayla sits in the passenger seat with her spine straight, hands folded in her lap like she’s afraid to touch anything. The road stretches out ahead of us—long, empty, unlit. City lights died ten minutes ago. We’re deep enough now that even the radio has dissolved into static.
She’s wearing the clothes.
Didn’t even tell me no when I told her to put them on.
Designer fits her the way it’s supposed to; like it was waiting for her body to catch up. Black jeans that hug her hips, boots that actually protect her feet, a fitted jacket that sharpens her lines instead of swallowing them. She looks expensive.
Dangerous.
Out of place.
Her hair is braided tight, pinned up into a neat bun at the base of her skull.
Smart girl.
Nothing loose to grab. Nothing to use against her. She planned for that. My mouth curves. I keep my eyes on the road. Let the silence stretch. Let it press down on her until she can’t pretend it’s normal anymore. Her knee bounces once.
Then stills.
“You’re tense,” I say casually.
“I’m fine.”
Lie.
I flick my gaze toward her for half a second. The way her jaw tightens tells me everything I need to know.
