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“Have you ever killed anyone?”

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look away, and he doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“Yes,” he says.

I wait for his words to create a physical reaction in me. Surprise, or the swell of shock, or horror…anything. But I mostly just feel calm.

“Did they deserve it?”

“I thought so at the time.” His thumb moves slowly over the rim of his mug. “I still think so, mostly. Not always.”

I nod. I hold my tea and I let it sit in me. Theo Nevolin has killed people, and he told me so in the same voice he used to tell Noah what a spirit level does.

“Your turn,” he says quietly. “You tell me something ugly.”

I think about it for a long time. Long enough that his tea stops steaming.

“I’m frightened,” I say at last. His whole body goes still beside me.

“Not of you,” I say quickly. “Of this. Of what’s happening to my family. Of Rusakov, and Papa being gone, and Arina out there tonight doing God knows what.” I take a breath and chuckle when I see his right eyebrow raise. “And of how much I wanted you to sit beside me at dinner,” I continue once the moment has passed. “I’ve known you for two days, Theo. Two days. And I wanted you there more than I should have.”

He sets the mug down on the dashboard, very carefully.

“That’s not ugly,” he says. His voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it.

“It feels ugly. It feels like something I’m not supposed to want.”

“Who says?”

I don’t have an answer. I’ve spent my whole life wanting things quietly. Taking the smallest slice. Catching the spiders. Leaving the room before anyone notices I’m upset. Helping people so I can create some kind of karmic balance…

I don’t want to be quiet tonight.

I turn in my seat. Papa’s coat is too big for me; the sleeves come down past my fingertips. I push them back. Then I reach up and touch the cut on his cheekbone, very lightly, the way I’d touch something I wasn’t sure I was allowed to keep.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.

He’s letting me decide. He’s been letting me decide since I walked into his gym.

So I decide.

I lean across the space between us and kiss him.

For one heartbeat, he’s perfectly still. His mouth is warm and careful under mine, and I think, horribly, that I’ve misread everything.

Then he makes a low sound in his chest, and his hand comes up and slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head like it’s something precious. He kisses me back, slow and deep and so gentle that it makes my eyes sting. This huge, frightening man who breaks people for money, and he kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll break.

I won’t break. I’m a Maximova.

I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him closer.

That changes things. His other arm comes around my waist and hauls me across the seat until I’m half in his lap, Papa’s coat tangled around both of us, the blanket sliding to the floor. He kisses me harder. Hungrier. Like he’s been starving for years and nobody bothered to tell him.

When we finally break apart, the windows are completely fogged. I can’t see the house. I can’t see anything but him.

His forehead rests against mine. His breathing is ragged.

“Evaria,” he says. Just my name. Like it’s the only word he’s got left.