Page 17
He knows it, too. I can see him knowing it. He holds perfectly still, the way you hold still when a bird lands on your hand, and he waits.
He's waiting for me.
That's what stops me.
Not his size or the gun or the fact that he's a Lazovski. The fact that he's standing here, wanting this, and he's going to let me be the one who decides.
I step back.
He exhales slowly. It's the only sign that cost him anything.
“I'm not marrying you,” I say. My voice is not as steady as I'd like.
He blinks once. “So you said.”
“I mean it,” I argue, even though it sounds weak.
“I believe you.” He steps back too, giving me the room. “You still have twenty-nine days.”
“I'm not going to change my mind.”
“Then I'll just have to convince you.”
I stare at him. “That's not how no works.”
“I'm not asking you to say yes tonight. I'm telling you what I'm going to do with the next twenty-nine days.” His voice is calm. Infuriatingly calm. “You can tell me no every single one of them. I'll still be here.”
“Why?”
He looks at me for a long moment.
“Ask me again when you're ready to believe the answer.”
I want to throw my coffee mug at him.
I walk back through his kitchen instead, depositing the mug on the island. I then move through to the living room, past the leather chair and the gun and the empty glass, and I open his front door.
“Arina.”
I stop. I don't turn around.
“Text me when you get home.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I'll have Timur follow you.”
I spin. “You wouldn't.”
He's leaning in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching me with that awful calm face.
“He's already downstairs,” he says. “He's been there since you arrived.”
“You knew I'd come tonight?”
“I knew you'd come before dawn.” The corner of his mouth lifts again.
I slam his door behind me.
