He didn’t smile.
“I’m not joking,” he said.
“I don’t want to stab my husband.”
The word left my mouth before I could catch it.
Husband.
Vadim went utterly still.
The air left the room.
I felt my face heat. “That was hypothetical.”
“No.”
“Vadim.”
“No. You said it. I’m keeping it.”
“You can’t keep a slip of the tongue.”
“I can keep anything that precious.”
My chest hurt.
He kissed me once, hard and brief, then forced himself out of bed. “Water. Then bath.”
“You’re not putting me in a bath like an invalid.”
“I’m putting you in a bath like a woman I just fucked very thoroughly after her first night in my bed.”
My entire body flushed. “You can’t say things like that while discussing aftercare.”
“I can do many things.”
“Yes, arrogance remains one of your core talents.”
He looked over his shoulder at me as he picked up the water glass. “And you remain mouthy after sex. Good. I worried I had damaged something important.”
I took the water he handed me and drank because I was thirsty, not because the warmth in my chest needed somewhere to go.
He disappeared into the bathroom. Water began to run, deep and steady.
I sat up carefully, pulling the sheet over my lap. The city beyond the windows looked cold and bright. Somewhere below, men with phones and guns and old loyalties moved through a day that had been waiting for us before I opened my eyes.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I grabbed it too quickly.
Unknown number.
A photo loaded first.
Petya stood near the entrance of a brick building in a borrowed dark coat, one of Vadim’s men visible behind him. The image was blurry, taken through glass or from across a street, but Petya’s face was clear enough.
My stomach dropped.
