Page 30 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

Fuck. Not a trick. “Oh.”

Maxim’s voice is pure gravel and not in a sexy way. “The man who took these works for a rival of my family named Alexei Sokolov. The photographer has been following you since the hotel, and as of tonight he is no longer in anyone’s custody, and he does not stop, Thea. It’s not in him. I’ve known this man for decades, and he doesn’t stop. The only reason you still breathe is he wasn’t ordered to kill you. Yet.”

“That doesn’t mean⁠—”

“It does,” he growls firmly. “The last time Alexei said a woman had a pretty face, Kirill peeled it off.”

Normally, I have a slight ringing in my ears. Hearing damage from too many concerts with no ear protection when I was in my teens. My sister loves music, so I used to take her to them, and neither one of us was smart enough to protect our ears.

The ringing isn’t there anymore. Neither is my hearing. Not after what he just said. My vision narrows, too, black at the edges.

Kirill. The creep has a name. The man who might peel my face off is named Kirill.

I can’t breathe. “But… you captured him, right?”

“He escaped. He always escapes.”

I grab the edge of my countertop to stop from going down as my knees buckle some. “Oh.”

“Are you⁠—”

“I’ll be okay. I think.” Not sure when my hearing and vision snapped back online, but my brain is, too. Too fast, actually. The rival of my family. Not my company. He said family, and he watched me catch it, and neither of us reached for the fiction, and that’s how the last polite curtain in this kitchen comes down.

No confession. Just the facts. Just a peeled face.

And the facts drain me. No more fight left. I don’t even want to throw the mug.

Maxim is a serious man. Maybe the most serious man I’ve ever met. And a man like that does not do everything he’s done over a woman he’s slept with twice because he’s being dramatic. Serious men don’t do drama.

He’s telling the truth. I can taste it. If I close my eyes, I can see the faceless face of a screaming woman⁠—

Stop. Focus.

If I want to keep living my small dumb life, or any life, I’m going to do what he says. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to. Wanting just left the building.

That doesn’t mean I’ve to like it.

“Okay…” It comes out smaller than I’d like, so I say it again, corners up. “Okay. But I’m bringing the good scissors.”

“I have scissors⁠—”

“You don’t have my scissors.”

His mouth opens to argue, but he must think better of it. “What else of yours don’t I have? I can help you pack.”

“I’ll do it.”

“I don’t mind⁠—”

“Maxim, just…” I don’t even know where I’m going with that sentence. Or him. “Just let me do this.”

He nods and steps back, hands in his pockets.

Packing takes minutes. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. A life should take more than a few minutes to pack, shouldn’t it? I shove essentials into the duffel I use for the beach and try to think of what to pack for Potato, but all I can think of is how bad my hands are still shaking, and why the hell am I fleeing with a pakhan in the middle of the night, and how much PTO this will cost me.

But since I’m fleeing with my boss, it better not come out of my PTO.

“There is also this.” He puts a bus ticket on my counter. Port Authority to Scranton, one adult.