Jonathan hesitates.
It’s subtle—but I catch it.
And for a split second, something flashes across his face.
Not fear.
Something closer to hate.
Then it’s gone.
Smoothed over.
Gone.
The man watches the shift with quiet amusement.
He’s younger. Composed. Every inch of him controlled in a way that feels dangerous… and familiar.
Not comforting.
But recognizable.
Like a shadow I’ve brushed past before.
His blond hair catches the low light, sharp features carved clean and precise. When his blue eyes lift to mine, they don’t dismiss me.
They assess.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Something in my chest tightens.
I feel seen in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“A little young for you, Jonathan?”
His accent is thick. Russian.
The air shifts instantly.
Jonathan straightens, shoulders snapping back, every inch of him going rigid.
“Niko,” he says flatly. “What an unexpected surprise.”
Niko smiles.
There’s no warmth in it.
It reminds me of the expressions I saw growing up—men who believed they knew something you didn’t. Men who held power and enjoyed it.
“We should talk,” Niko says smoothly. “Don’t you think?”
Niko lets the silence stretch as he stares.
“It’s been… what, four years?”
