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Dimitri’s smirk vanishes, replaced by a squint. His calculating brain is spinning its wheels, putting pieces together that I desperately need kept in separate universes.
“Is it a girl?” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Did a girl leave it?”
I stare at him.
A girl.
The monumental inaccuracy of the statement almost makes me choke. Yes, Dimitri. A lovely girl. A six-foot-five girl with black hair, hands that can kill a man in one move, and an obsession with shoving things into my mouth.
“Sure,” I say, seizing the lifeline with both hands. “Yes. Exactly. A girl. A secret admirer. You solved the riddle, Sherlock. Now walk away.”
Dimitri doesn’t walk away. His brow furrows deeper. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know. It’s a secret admirer. That’s how the word works.”
“Is it someone from the Bratva side? Because if someone from our faction is leaving shit in your locker without clearance, that’s a security breach. How did she get past the magnetic scanner?”
“Maybe she’s a hacker,” I snap, trying to push past him toward the hallway. “Move.”
Dimitri steps directly into my path, his gaze dropping back to the flower I’m still crushing against my sweater.
“You have been acting weird for a week,” he says, his tone shifting into that protective register that always means he’s about to make my life infinitely harder. “Is this really a girl, or is someone messing with you? Does this have anything to do with Kento?”
“What the fuck does Kurosaki have to do with anything?” I hiss. “Why are you bringing that parasite into this?”
“Because if he is pulling pranks on you, or if he is threatening you, Ilya—”
“Nobody is threatening me!” I shout, using my free hand to shove hard against Dimitri’s chest. “I am an apex predator! I threaten other people! Now get your gigantic, paranoid ass into the ring!”
Dimitri doesn’t budge an inch from the shove, but he studies my face. “You are hiding something,” he says calmly.
“I’m hiding my desire to execute you.”
“I’m going to find out who it is.”
“There is nothing to find out.”
I shove him again, harder this time. Dimitri finally lets himself be moved, taking a step backward toward the main doors. He points two fingers at his own eyes, then turns them at me.
“I’m watching you, Solovyov.”
“Die in a ditch, Morozov.”
He shakes his head, a deeply unconvinced laugh leaving his throat as he pushes through the double doors into the boxing room.
The second I’m sure he’s gone, my entire posture collapses.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I spin around, pressing my back hard against the lockers, and slowly slide down until my shoulders hit the middle hinge.
My left arm uncurls.
I look down at my hand.
