Page 12 of Savage Truce

We reach the main doors, and I reluctantly pull my hand from his so I can make sure they’re locked and the bolt is in place.

Gesturing to our left, we continue to walk, then Rodian asks, “Do you live close by?”

I nod. “It only takes me ten minutes to get home.”

“You don’t have a British accent,” he mentions.

Beginning to feel nervous because of his line of questioning, I link my hands behind my back so I don’t fidget. “I practically grew up in international boarding schools.”

I can feel his eyes on me but refuse to look up. “Here in England?”

I nod again. “The school I graduated from is one town over.”

“Did you like it?”

Shrugging, I fidget with my wristwatch before stopping myself. “It was okay.”

We stop by the side door, and I say, “The last exit is at the back of the building, so if you’d like to go, I can let you out here.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asks, making my gaze fly to his.

“No. Not at all.”

“Good.” Rodian takes over from me and checks the door before placing his hand on my lower back.

When we pass by the stage to get to the corridor, his hand moves up my back, and he places his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.

The heat from his muscled body seeps into mine, and even though I love it, I can’t help but worry.

If Rodian and I continue to get to know each other, and we date over the next two weeks, how the hell am I going to explain to him that I have to go back to Russia?

“What’s wrong?” he suddenly asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Nothing.” I quickly smile, and after checking the back exit, we stop in the kitchen so I can make us some coffee.

While we wait for the water to boil, I load some of the leftover pastries onto a plate so we can enjoy them with the coffee.

Rodian folds his arms over his chest, and it draws my attention to his biceps straining beneath his dress shirt. “So where is home?”

Shit.

“Right now it’s here, but who knows, that might change in the future.” I evade mentioning Russia.

Wanting to direct the conversation away from me, I say, “You have an accent.” I tilt my head. “Where’s home for you?”

“Russia.”

My eyes widen, and I gasp, “Really?”

A frown line appears between his eyebrows. “Why the surprised reaction?”

I shake my head. “No reason.” When his gaze narrows even more, I say, “I just didn’t think you were from Russia.” I keep busy adding milk to the mugs. “I assume you’re only passing through town? When are you leaving?”

“In a week.”

Well, that solves my problem, but still, it also sucks.

“If you only have a week, why are you bothering with getting to know me?”