Chapter 10 #2
I turn on the faucet, splash cold water on my face. The shock helps. A little. I catch my reflection in the mirror—messy hair, dark circles. I exhale.
this can’t be happening.
How did he get in? My locks aren’t exactly Fort Knox, but they’re not nothing. He must’ve picked them.
He’s the fucking Pakhan of the Bratva, of course he picked them.
I brush my teeth, trying to buy time.
What if he knows?
My stomach drops.
If he knows, I’m dead. Simple as that. He doesn’t strike me as the type to ask questions first. I spit, rinse, and stare at myself in the mirror.
“Get it together, Ayla,” I whisper.
I can’t hide in here forever.
I swipe a pair of sweatpants off the floor and slide them on before unlocking the door and stepping into the hallway. The smell hits me immediately—eggs, butter, something sweet. My stomach growls traitorously.
When was the last time I ate? Yesterday? The day before?
I find him in my kitchen. Two plates sit on my counter—the only two plates I own. Toast. Scrambled eggs. Something that looks suspiciously like pancakes.
He’s sitting in one the mismatched bar stools.
“Where did you get all this?” I ask.
“Your fridge.”
“My fridge is empty.”
“Was.”
I stare at him. “You brought groceries.”
“Sit.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “Your locks are shit. Anyone could’ve walked in.”
“But you did.”
“Lucky you.”
I cross my arms. “This is insane.”
“Sit.”
“I’m not—”
“Sit, Ayla.”
The way he says my name makes something twist low in my stomach. I sit next to him. His cologne is heavy, lingering.
“Eat.”
I stare at my plate.
I’m not eating this. Trust no one.
Maksim sighs, grabs my fork and stabs at the eggs bringing it to his mouth before stabbing the pancake and eating a piece.
“There. Eat.”
He drops the fork back onto the plate and its clatters. He takes a few quick bites from his plate before standing.
I watch him as I pick up my fork and take a bite of the eggs.
I have to suppress a moan. They’re perfect. When was the last time I had fresh eggs?
Maksim sets a glass of orange juice in front of me.
Trust no one.
He grabs the glass roughly, some orange juice spills. He drinks from it and sets in down on the counter again.
“That shit,” he says pointing at me, “needs to stop.”
I grab the glass and sip from it, letting the orange juice touch my lips, but not really drinking.
“I’m not going to poison you. That’s not how I kill.”
I set the glass down carefully.
“How comforting,” I mutter.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me eat. It’s unnerving. Every bite feels like a performance I didn’t audition for.
“Why are you here?” I ask again between bites. “And don’t tell me it’s for breakfast.”
He straightens and pulls a wallet out of his back pocket.
My wallet.
My head snaps to the front door to my backpack. Open. Unzipped.
The money.
Seventeen thousand dollars.
My pulse roars in my ears.
“What did you do?” I whisper.
His eyes stay on my face as he flips the wallet once in his hand.
“Relax,” he says. “I didn’t touch your money. I don’t need it.”
“Then why do you have my wallet?”
“To be sure you are who you say you are, Ayla Smith.”
I swallow hard. “And?”
“Inconclusive.”
I stab at the pancakes, shoving a piece into my mouth so I don’t have to respond. They’re fluffy. Sweet. The kind of breakfast I haven’t had since before Baba died. The thought makes my throat tight.
“Who taught you to cook?” I ask.
“My mother. Before she stopped giving a fuck.”
The admission hangs in the air between us—raw, unexpected. I glance up at him, but his expression is already closed off again. Whatever window opened just slammed shut.
“These are good,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
I take another bite of pancake.
“I’ll be going with you to work today,” he says dragging his plate across the counter.
“I’m not working at Smash—”
“I know, you’re working at that diner on ninth today.”
My heart stutters.
He smirks before biting into the piece of toast on his plate. He chews slow, his eyes on me. His pierced tongue peeks out to lick his lips. “I learned a lot about you these past few weeks, Ayla. so we’re spending the day—together.”
“No.”
He stands, sharp and annoyed. “That word, Ayla. I don’t like it.”
I drop the fork. “Well, get used to it.”
“Say it again and I will fuck that word out of your mouth.”
I freeze.
My breath catches.
Heat floods my face—anger, humiliation, something worse I refuse to name.
“You don’t get to threaten me in my own apartment,” I say, voice low.
He steps closer. One step. Two. Until he’s right in front of me, towering.
“I’m not threatening you.” His voice drops. “I’m making a promise.”
I stand, shoving the stool back. It scrapes against the floor. “Get out.”
“No.”
My word thrown back at me like a weapon.
We’re inches apart now. Close enough that I can see the pale ring around his irises.
“You don’t own me,” I say.
“But I could.”
The words lands like a punch.
I shove him. Hard. Both palms against his chest.
He doesn’t budge. Just catches my wrists, pins them between us.
“Let go.”
“Make me.”
His grip isn’t painful. It’s worse than that—it’s careful. Like he’s holding something fragile he hasn’t decided whether to keep or break.
I twist, trying to wrench free. He holds firm.
“You’re scared,” he says quietly.
“I’m angry.”
“You’re both.”
I hate that he’s right. Hate the way my pulse hammers where his thumbs press against my wrists.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
His eyes search mine. “Because you’re hiding something.”
My stomach drops. “I’m not—”
“You are.” He releases one wrist, brings his hand up to cup my jaw. The touch is gentle. Too gentle. “And when I find out what it is, I’ll gut you.”
I jerk back, but he follows the movement, backing me against the counter. My hip hits the edge. Trapped again.
“You can’t just—”
“I can.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “I can do whatever I want, Beda. That’s how this works.”
“Not with me.”
Something flickers in his expression. Amusement? Frustration? I can’t tell.
“Especially with you. You walked into my territory and unfortunately for you, I noticed.”
Then he steps back. Just like that. The air rushes in where his body was, cold and unwelcome.
He picks up his plate, carries it to the sink. Rinses it like this is normal. Like he didn’t just corner me in my own kitchen.
“Get dressed,” he says without turning around. “We leave in twenty minutes.”