“That’s not what he said.”
“No,” I admit. “It isn’t.”
Her eyes search my face. “Is this because of last night?”
“Possibly.”
“Yaromir.”
I look at Viktor. “Car in five.”
He leaves.
Anya comes around the table, anger replaced now by something like concern. “You’re going there?”
“Yes.”
“Is that safe?”
“No.”
The honest answer makes her stop. For a second, the argument disappears from her face.
“You just told me I can’t leave because it’s dangerous, and now you’re walking into it.”
“Yes.”
“That’s absurd.”
“That is my work.”
She looks like she wants to say more. Then her eyes drop to my hands, to the cuts still healing over my knuckles.
Something in her expression shifts. Softens.
I can’t afford softness right now.
“Stay in the house,” I say.
Her face hardens immediately.
There. I ruined it.
Good. Anger is safer for both of us.
“I heard you the first time.”
“I mean it.”
“So did I.”
I want to touch her before I leave. That’s new.
That’s also dangerous.
I don’t touch her. I walk out.
The warehouse sits near the river, behind a row of loading yards and rusting fences. By the time we arrive, smoke still hangs low over the water, dark and oily. Fire crews have already pulled back from the main structure, but the air smells of wet ash, burned wood, metal, and chemicals.
