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I barely have time to smile before I notice the boxes.

They’re stacked along the wall beside the door. Clothes. Books. A few framed photographs. Messy handwriting scrawled on the side.

Mike’s things, judging by the chin-up bar sticking out of one of the boxes.

My stomach drops.

“What happened?”

Isla looks away. “We decided it’s best not to…we called the engagement off, and he’s going to stay somewhere else for a while.”

“Like, temporarily, or…?”

Isla only shakes her head, swallowing thickly.

Before I can respond, Vasily steps slightly in front of me, his attention sweeping over the apartment before settling on Isla. He’s been doing that since we arrived: checking the streets, the hallway, the windows, every person who comes within ten feet of us.

It’s ridiculous. He’s acting like my bodyguard.

And, annoyingly, he looks very good doing it. Dressed for the city in perfectly crisp black trousers, a light black thigh-length jacket, and a gray shirt that complements his eyes. Isla notices him too. It would be impossible for any woman not to notice Vasily Borisov.

Her eyebrows lift.

“Is that?”

“This is Vasily,” I say, the rest of the sentence knotting in my throat because, what do I call him? My boss? My kidnapper?

My protector?

His hand settles briefly on my back, protective and warm. I straighten up, noticing Isla noticing that, but the gesture is strangely reassuring.

And, if I’m being completely honest, a little hot.

“Come in,” Isla says, stepping aside.

Vasily enters first. I almost laugh.

“So who exactly is this?” my best friend hisses under her breath as she shuts the door and bolts it, jostling some of Mike’s things. “He looks like you plucked him out of the courtroom on your way here. And not exactly from the jury box.”

I glance toward Vasily.

He’s paced restlessly across the apartment already and is standing near the window, arms folded, looking like he belongs there even though he very clearly doesn’t.

“He’s...” I hesitate. “Just someone I’ve been seeing.”

Vasily’s mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk, and I realize he’s heard—despite us whispering and his focus appearing to be on the streets below us. I glare at his back.

Isla crosses her arms. Then she smiles.

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Her smile gets wider. “You’re blushing.”