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“What are you doing here?” What should’ve been a shriek tears out as a broken gasp.

Last night is a blur, like jagged pieces I can’t force together, and everything cuts to black the second I step into the fight club.

How did I end up here?

“What kiss?” Sergei argues ignoring my question as he takes a step closer, and I suddenly feel too conscious of my flyways, the sleep in my eyes.

“What are you doing here?” I counter, stepping forward too. If this is a stand-off, I’m not losing on footwork.

“You kissed someone?” His jaw tightens. Another step.

I frown. “I feel like we’re having two completely different conversations.”

“Did you kiss someone, Elara?” His gaze sharpens.

“Sergei.” I raise up my hands. “Too early for this nonsense.”

“You kissed someone.” This flipping twat, he’s relentless.

“And you’re weirdly invested in it.” I shoot back. “Should I be flattered or concerned?” I lift my chin to meet his gaze, my neck straining with the effort.

Sergei is built to tower. He looks down at me without moving an inch, forcing the angle, forcing the imbalance.

“Neither.” He speaks. “You should be honest.” He pauses for moment, a faint crease forms between his brows as he studies my expression.

His gaze drops, his chest brushes my shoulder as he shifts around me, then his hands settle on my waist.

Before I can protest, I’m lifted clean off the floor with absurd ease and deposited onto the bathroom counter.

If he treats me like a piece of furniture one more time, I swear I’ll kick him in the balls.

Sorry, Zaytsev bloodline. You had a good run.

I inhale sharply. “Great, we’ve moved on from interrogation to manhandling.”

“You’re not denying it.” His hands don’t leave my body as he leans forward, and gives my waist a tiny indescribable squeeze as if contemplating his next move.

I lean back on my hands, meeting his gaze head-on. “Careful, you’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m not!” “Mhmm…”

“Elara.” His right hand leaves my waist and lifts to my hair, gently smoothing the flyaway strands away from my face. The look in his eyes stops me cold.

No one has ever looked at me like that before, my breath stalls. It’s ridiculous. He’s only fixing my hair. And yet, I have to blink rapidly because my eyes suddenly sting.

It says far too much about me that a gesture so small can undo me. It says how deprived I am—not of touch, but of affection—that I want to turn into a ball and hide in his arms.

Fuck, Elara. We don’t do that. A sane corner of my mind says.

“I thought I woke up in someone’s bed and couldn’t remember what happened.” The words fly out of my mouth overcharged with emotions I don’t know how to control.

I’m so pathetic.

What I am feeling isn’t similar to panic, not even close, it is warmth budding in my stomach and blooming all over my body.

“There’s no other bed for you, solnyshko.” What was that? “You fainted last night; I didn’t know where you lived so I brought you here.” He steps back and leans against the wall, his hands in pocket, deliberately trying to act nonchalant.

I make a motion towards my clothes. “What happened to my clothes? I was not wearing this last night.”