And then, I continue to shop.
I love it. I come to life when I shop—the fabrics, the scents, the colors. Something new and shiny.
"Can I help you?" a woman asks, looking down her nose at me.
But before I can respond, Matvei’s voice cuts through.
"Scratch that."
I blink at him.
"We’re done here," he says. "Let’s go home."
And for the first time, I like hearing him say the wordhome.
It’s not home.
But why does it feel that way?
Why do I like the way his fingers tighten around mine?
Why does it send a thrill through me when he leans in and smells me?
Why do I love the way he opens the door for me and gestures for me to go in first?
I love all of it.
But my mind is back on my past, the rejection from the Irish, the pain that took away my choices.
I stare out the window, fingering the edge of the bag in my lap.
"You spoiled me today," I say.
"If buying you what you need is spoiling, then you and I have different definitions of the word."
"Really? What does it mean to you?"
"Letting you get away with everything."
I smirk. "Then I’m definitely not spoiled."
Matvei doesn’t let me get away with anything. Not even the things I should.
By the time we reach his house, the unease I felt in the square hasn’t left me. If anything, it’s worse.
I’m breathing hard when we make it to the front door.
He stands behind me, watching. "You’re shaking." His voice is steady. Controlled. "Why are you shaking?"
"I told you?—"
"I don’t care what you told me."
That’s the worst part. He doesn’t lose control, and somehow, that makes him terrifying.
He leans in. "What did you see back there?"
"Nothing."
