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“W-what are you doing here?” I speak instead.

“I need your number.”

I stare at him. For a moment, I’m too baffled to respond.

Of all the things I expected him to say after breaking my front door off its hinges, this wasn’t one of them.

“Well?” He tilts his head. “I’m asking first. I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“No.”

“No?” Genuine confusion flickers across his face. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to.” I lift a brow, stubborn enough to hide behind defiance.

The lie tastes bitter. I do want him. That’s precisely the problem.

“I’m saying I have my ways to get it, but I’m asking. A little appreciation please?”

I blink again. The audacity of this man.

“Speaking of which…” I narrow my eyes. “How do you know where I live?”

“Are you not listening, malyshka?” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I told you I have my ways.”

Instead of explaining himself, he closes the distance between us. His hands settle on my waist once more, giving the gentlest squeeze, and my breath catches before I can stop it.

I hate that my body betrays me so easily.

“Now,” he sighs, his breath warm against my face. “About that number?”

“Are you seriously asking me that after barging into my flat and breaking my front door?”

Anger has to work. We’ve already established that ignoring Sergei Zaytsev isn’t an option. If I want him gone, I have to convince him I don’t care, even if it’s a lie.

He studies me for another moment before turning on his heel and my heart lurches.

No. Don’t leave. The thought strikes so suddenly it almost knocks the air from my lungs.

But instead of heading for the ruined front door, he walks deeper into the flat, following the corridor until he reaches what has to be my bedroom.

I blink again. “What are you doing?”

I slide carefully off the counter, biting back a hiss as my feet hit the floor, then follow the sound of his footsteps toward my room.

A loud thud echoes from my bedroom, and all the colour drains from my face as my mind immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion.

He opened the drawer. The one with all the blood-soaked bandages I’d been stuffing away for days because I couldn’t bear to look at them myself.

Ignoring the sharp protest from my thighs, I hurry down the corridor as fast as I can, only to stop abruptly at the bedroom doorway.

He hadn’t opened that drawer at all. Instead, he’d found the one with my suitcase.

It now lies open across my bed while Sergei rifles through my wardrobe, folding clothes into it calmly like it’s most reasonable thing he’s done today.

“What are you doing?” I ask, unable to hide the disbelief colouring my voice.

Nothing about this makes any sense.