I can’t handle this right now.
I’m in Emir’s borrowed hoodie, and the moth bitten leggings from the old room. My boots aren’t even laced up. I don’t have the strength to fight off Maksim Korsakov right now.
I push the door open anyway.
The apartment is dark except for the pale light bleeding through my window. It catches on his hair first.
Red?
He changed it.
Then those eyes.
Maksim sits on my couch like he’s been there for hours. Maybe he has.
His jacket is off. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos stark against pale skin even in the dim light. He doesn’t move when I enter. Just watches me with that predator stillness that makes my spine lock up.
“You look like shit,” he says.
My hand tightens on the doorknob. “Get out.”
“No.”
Of course not.
I close the door behind me. Lock it out of habit even though it’s pointless. He’s already inside.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Long enough.”
My legs threaten to give out, but I force them to hold. Can’t show weakness. Not now.
“I want my brass knuckles back,” he says.
I almost laugh. Almost. “Don’t know where they are.”
“Thief.”
“Consider it payment for emotional distress.”
His mouth curves. Just barely. “You punched me in the face and stole my car, Beda. That’s more than emotional distress.”
“You chased me through the woods and tried to—” I stop. Swallow. “We’re even.”
“We’re not even close to even.”
He stands.
I take a step back before I can stop myself.
“Where were you?” His voice is too calm. Too controlled.
“Out.”
“For three days?”
“Yes.”
