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He steps closer, his hand rising to gently brush my face, thumb grazing my cheek. It’s an entirely different touch from a few minutes ago. This isn’t rough or hungry; it’s cautious. And I find it unbearable.

I slap his hand away before I can think better of it, the sharp sound echoing faintly in the room.

“Don’t,” I rasp.

My body is still shaking from adrenaline, emotion, anger, and the whiplash of it all, but I force myself to stand.

The room tilts slightly, but I ignore it. I will not stay on my knees while he decides how he feels about me.

“Maksim.” My name leaves his mouth differently now. It sounds almost like a warning or an apology he doesn’t know how to give.

“Fuck off, Tristan,” I snap. Then I storm past him, yanking the door open and bolting out of his office before I put a bullet through his skull.

Chapter 9

MAKSIM

My skull feels as if it’s splitting open.

I sit hunched on one of Alex’s stupidly expensive kitchen stools, elbows braced on the marble counter, fingers digging into my temples as if I can squeeze the pain out if I press hard enough.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing works.

The morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Alex’s penthouse is way too bright, reflecting off polished surfaces and glass like the sun personally decided to punish me for last night.

Last night comes back in jagged flashes—music, alcohol, someone yelling, then Alex appearing out of nowhere like a silent, judgmental reaper to haul my drunk ass out of the club.

Fantastic.

I groan quietly and drag my hands down my face. Across the kitchen, Alex moves around as if he’s not responsible for my suffering.

He’s calm. Annoyingly composed.

Always is.

He’s boiling something in a small pot, steam curling up toward the sleek cabinets like the penthouse kitchen is some kind of wellness spa instead of the crime scene of my impending death.

“Is that for me?” I croak, my voice rough.

“Yes,” he says simply. “For your hangover.”

“How domestic of you.” I say.

No response.

Of course not. Alex rarely wastes words on me. I’m more of a background noise to him, an irritating radio he hasn’t figured out how to turn off.

He pours the steaming liquid into a mug, then slides it across the counter towards me.

The mug stops right in front of my face.

I stare at it.

Ginger tea.

I hate ginger tea.