There’s that little pang again—the one I pretend not to feel. The reminder that I never bothered to wonder what kind of man Matvei is when he’s not hunting me. Turns out, he’s the kind who has family dinners and inside jokes.
And yet, he’s barely afraid of me running anymore.
That’s what keeps twisting the knife. What’s given him so much confidence?
I’m losing my edge—or worse, he’s getting inside my head, rearranging my instincts until the sharp edges dull and the exits blur.
I feel Matvei behind me before I even see him. “Any luck with Rodion?”
He shakes his head. “They're out of town. I forgot.”
“Well, I can’t exactly meet them in this.”
Matvei’s gaze drags down my body, slow and heated. Not even trying to hide it.
“We’ll figure it out.”
That’s the difference between us. I survive by planning ten steps ahead. He survives by deciding no plan is necessary—because heisthe fucking plan.
I grip the counter, forcing myself to breathe. My reflection stares back at me, daring me to break first.
“You’re still in trouble,” he says.
“Mm. So you say.” I manage to keep my voice coy even as my pulse thunders.
I can’t decide if I want him to punish me—or if I want to make him bleed first.
Maybe both.
Hmmm.
I stand in front of the mirror and pull my shoulders back. I guess a little bit of makeup or something couldn't hurt. "So do you always let your parents talk to you that way? You didn't seem the type."
"What's the type?" he asks.
“The type to let your parents control you. And you didn't answer my question."
"My parents are ruthless, mean. But they're the reason why I'm here, so…yeah.”
I catch his eyes in the mirror and narrow my gaze at him. That is not the answer, and we both know it, but I'm not going to pry. Eventually, I'll understand the truth about him.
And eventually, he'll know the truth about me too.
Because at this point, I know for a fact that what he said about chasing me is true. And even if I could erase my existence—disappear off the face of the earth, never to be found—I know that’s not what’s tethering me to him right now either.
Deep down, I’m intrigued. Curious. No one has ever made me feel as alive as he does, even when that feeling is laced with danger.
And I can’t help but wonder—have I finally met my match?
I was interested in the Irish, only inasmuch as what they could offer me. But I didn't like any of them. They're too old-fashioned, too set in their ways.
And I thought I actually didn't have a romantic bone in my body.
Maybe I was wrong. Even now, when he tells me that he's going to punish me, excitement curls in my belly. Will he hurt me again? I want him to. It's strangely cathartic in a way I can't explain, and I’m not sure I would want to, even if I could.
"I'm going to get my clothes and wash them," I tell him softly, then mumble under my breath.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
