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“The terms didn’t specify—”

“No,” I say. “They didn’t.”

She turns to look at me. “We’re not married yet.”

“Not yet,” I say. “But you’re in my house, so you’re in my bed. That’s how it works.”

“That’s not how it works,” she says.

“I’ll fuck you in that bed,” I say, “against that headboard, on top of those sheets, under them, however I want. I’ll flip you over and take you from behind, and you’ll grab those pillows, and you’ll like it.” I look at the bed, then at her. “But you’ll also sleep in it. Nobody touches you but me. Worse deals exist.”

Her jaw is tight. “We’re not married yet,” she says again.

“No,” I say. “But you’re here, and that’s my bed. Same thing.”

“I’d like a key to the front door,” she says, changing the topic. I count it as a win.

“No.”

“I’m your fiancée.”

“You’re my fiancée, and you’re staying put,” I say. “You signed up for it.”

“I agreed to a marriage,” she says. “Not a cage.”

“Same thing in my world.” I lean against the doorframe. “You walked into my compound and offered yourself up. Don’t act surprised now that I’m taking you up on it.”

Her chin comes up. Just slightly. Just enough to tell me she wants to argue but decided against it.

“Dinner’s at seven,” I say. “Don’t wait for me tonight, I won’t be back. Bed’s yours.” I look at her once more. “Don’t get used to it.”

She looks at me for a long second. “Fine.”

I push off the doorframe and start to leave. Behind me, she unzips her bag and starts unpacking, moving through the room like she’s been here before, like it’s already hers. I stop in the doorway.

“You know what I haven’t decided yet,” I say, without turning around.

She doesn’t answer. She keeps unpacking.

“Which room I’m going to have you in first,” I say. “The kitchen table, the wall in the dining room, the rug.” I glance back at her. She’s holding a folded sweater, and she’s not moving. “I keep going back and forth.”

She puts the sweater in the drawer, closes it, and doesn’t look at me. “Is that all?”

“For now,” I say. “Get some sleep, Zayka. I need you rested.”

“For what?”

“Breakfast,” I say. “Then we’ll see.”

I walk out and pull the door shut. I stand in the hallway for a second, listening. Nothing. No movement, no sound.

Then I hear her exhale. Just once, long and slow, like she’s been holding it in since I told her about the kitchen table.

I smile and shake my head. This is going to be fun.

I head downstairs. Marka’s waiting with two phones and a mess that needs cleaning up before midnight. I take the phones and get to work because that’s what I do and it’s always been enough.

It’s not enough tonight. I get through an hour of it before Lavro’s chair pulls my attention across the room again. Empty. Same as every night. I put a file on top of it so I have somewhere to look that isn’t the empty seat, and I get back to work. I don’t think about the fact that the woman upstairs is his killer’s daughter and I brought her into my house anyway. I don’t think about what that means. I’m not ready to think about what that means.