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“I gotta text Tasha before she calls the cops.”

She unlocks it. Stops.

There’s a new thread at the top of her messages. A contact named Sasha. And a text, sent from her phone, at 4:12 this morning.

Mine.

She stares at it. Then she looks up at me, slowly.

“Did you go through my phone?”

“Yes.”

“You texted yourself. From my phone. At four in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“What else did you do?”

I don’t answer that.

She clutches the phone to her chest. And there it is. For the first time since she walked up to my booth, she looks at me and she’s scared. Not cute-scared, not nervous-in-the-car scared. Real fear. I can see her doing the math. Big man. Bratva. Slammed a guy’s face into a table in front of a whole club and didn’t blink. Watched her sleep all night. Went through her phone while she slept, and didn’t even pretend he hadn’t.

She swallows.

“Where’s the guy from the club? The one you hit?”

“Malibu.”

“Is he okay?”

I look at her. I don’t lie to her. I’m never going to lie to her.

“He’s not gonna bother you again.”

Her face goes slack. She gets out of bed so fast she trips on the sheet. She wraps it around herself and starts snatching her clothes off the floor. Her skirt. Her bra. The ruined work shirt with no buttons.

“I’m going home.”

“Misha’s bringing you clothes.”

“I don’t want your clothes.” She’s shoving her legs into her skirt with her hands shaking so bad she can’t get the zipper. “I’m going home, Sasha.”

She’s afraid of me. Her whole body’s buzzing with it, her breath coming fast and shallow, her eyes darting to the door. I can smell it on her.

I can also smell how wet she is.

She gets the skirt zipped. Pulls the button-less shirt on and holds it closed with one fist. Grabs her bag. Walks past me toward the door, wide, the way you walk past a dog you don’t trust.

I get there first.

I don’t run. I don’t have to. I just walk over and lean my back against the door and fold my arms.

She stops three feet away.

“Move.”

“No.”