“Why are you here?” I asked. My voice sounded scraped raw, barely more than a whisper. “Or—” I glanced around, the panic already creeping in, crawling slowly up my spine. “Why am I here?”
He didn’t respond immediately.
I pulled the duvet closer on instinct—and that’s when I realized something else.
My stomach dropped.
I lifted the edge just enough to confirm what I feared. A flash of pale skin, bare thighs, nothing else. My pulse spiked again, slamming hard against my ribs.
“Why am I naked?” The question came out sharp and brittle. “Did we—”
“No.” His answer was immediate, firm, nearly angry. “Of course not.”
He set the glass on the bedside table but kept the pills in his hand.
“Your clothes were soaked,” he said, his tone slower now. “You were freezing. I had to get you warm.”
I studied his face, hunting for the lie, the fracture, the tell that would prove he was playing me. Nothing. Just bone-deep exhaustion carved into every line—and beneath it, something darker, sharper. Something that watched me like prey and guarded me like treasure at the same time.
My head throbbed harder, punishing me for trying to think.
I took the pills from his hand, my fingers clumsy and numb with the weight of everything. I placed them on my tongue and reached for the glass. The cold water hit the back of my throat as I swallowed, the chill making me shiver.
I lay back, eyes closed, waiting for the spinning to settle.
Fragments started surfacing.
Pain. The kind that doesn’t bleed but still leaves you gutted. He hadn’t whispered it in anger. He’d said it lightly, with a crooked smile, like it cost him nothing to erase me in front of a room full of witnesses.
I don’t feel shit for you.
Then Valeria’s apartment. A haze of smoke. The drug.
I’d never taken anything like that before. I remembered the hesitation. I thought it might help, might take the edge off.
Instead, my heart had started racing like it wanted to tear free from my chest. Too fast. Too hard. Panic spreading like wildfire.
Ruslan. His face when he found out about Maksym. The fury. His voice sharp, the words blurred, but the rage unmistakable.
And then—God—he kissed me.
He touched me.
I hadn’t wanted that.
That part was clear. I remembered turning my face away. Remembered the panic flooding me when he didn’t stop.
After that—static.
I pressed my palms into my eyes, trying to force the memories to sharpen, but the pain only flared brighter.
“Stop,” Maksym said, his hand hovering near my wrist but not touching. “Don’t push it yet.”
I lowered my hands and looked at him instead.
“You told me you didn’t want anything to do with me,” I whispered. Accusation and hurt tangled tightly in my chest. “You said—”
“I lied.”
