Chapter 12
Ayla
He left me.
Of course.
I walk home from Mrs. Hardinoff’s, by the time I get home. My legs and feet are done.
I shove my key into the lock, twist it harder than necessary, and push inside.
The apartment is dark. Empty.
I exhale.
I drop my backpack by the door, kick off my boots, and head straight for the bathroom. The smell of soda and cleaning chemicals clings to my skin like a bad memory.
I strip, turn the shower as hot as it’ll go, and step under the spray.
The water burns. I let it.
My mind won’t shut off. It keeps replaying the day on loop—Maksim breaking into my apartment, making breakfast, the diner, Candy on her knees, Mrs. Hardinoff’s words echoing in my head.
That life is behind me.
How does someone just... leave without leaving?
I scrub at my skin until it’s raw, trying to wash away the feeling of being watched. Of being cornered. Of being seen in ways I never wanted.
Like my money. He saw it. Touched my wallet. Counted it, probably.
And he didn’t take it.
Thankfully.
I shut off the water, wrap myself in the towel that’s more holes than fabric, and stare at my reflection in the fogged mirror.
I look better today than I have in weeks, maybe because I ate for once.
I should eat now. Fridge is full of food. I squeeze the ends of my hair with the towel.
My phone buzzes from my discarded jeans. I fish out my phone.
Gabriel
I want my intel Ayla. Now.
I take in a breath. I have nothing for him. He needs to fucking wait.
I put my phone down; slip on shorts and a long shirt and pad to the kitchen and pull open the fridge.
It’s packed. Fresh eggs. Milk. Bread. Fruit. Things I haven’t seen in ages. But no leftovers.
I don’t cook if I can avoid it.
Sandwich it is.
I’m halfway through slapping mayo on bread when I feel it. That prickle at the back of my neck, like eyes on me in the dark. My head snaps toward the door.
Nothing.
Then my couch.
Maksim.
“When the f—”
“While you were in the shower.”
My grip tightens on the butter knife. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He stands and that’s when I notice them, shopping bags. Multiple. Designer logos I recognize but have never touched.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
He grabs them up by their handles, doesn’t answer me. Just walks past me like he pays rent and drops the bags on my bed through the doorless frame, and comes back.
“Just brought you some things,” he says finally.
“I don’t need things from you.”
“Yes you do.”
My teeth grind so hard I swear I taste blood. “You can’t just—”
“I can.” He leans against my counter, eyes tracking from my wet hair down to my bare legs. “Nice shorts.”
“Get out.”
“No.”
I exhale harshly. “I hate that word.”
“Right? Fucking terrible.”
“Can you go now? I’m trying to make dinner.”
He glances at the sandwich. “That’s not food. That’s depression between bread.”
“It’s what I have.”
“You have eggs. Meat. Vegetables. Actual ingredients.”
“I don’t want to cook.”
His eyebrow raises. “Why not?”
I can’t tell him because cooking for over one hundred men is Gabriel’s usual punishment or that I had to do that most of my life since Baba died, so I lie.
“I just hate it, takes too long.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then pushes off the counter. “Move.”
“What?”
“Move, Ayla.”
I don’t. He steps closer, crowds me against the counter until I have no choice but to shuffle sideways. He takes my spot, opens the fridge, starts pulling things out.
“What are you doing?”
“Making you dinner.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want.” He sets the cutting board on the counter, pulls a knife. “You’re going to learn how to feed yourself properly.”
I stare at his back. At the way his shoulders move under his shirt as he chops up a green pepper. At the tattoos peeking out from his collar.
He’s a predator. A killer. And he’s making me dinner.
“Why do you care?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t turn around. “Because I didn’t spend money on size four jeans for you to be too small to fit them.”
“Size four?”
He stills.
“Is that not your size?”
“I—I don’t know I usually just—” steal is on the tip of my tongue, “thrift clothes.”
He grunts and continues to cook. I watch him move around my kitchen like he’s done this before. Like standing in a stranger’s apartment at night, cooking them dinner, is normal behavior for a Pakhan.
It’s not.
I should tell him to leave. Should grab my knife from my boot by the door and make him understand that breaking into my space repeatedly isn’t acceptable.
But I don’t.
Because the smell of peppers and steak hitting hot oil makes my stomach clench with hunger I usually ignore for days.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, and watch.
He’s efficient. No wasted movements. The knife moves through the vegetables with precision that speaks of practice. Not the kind you get from cooking classes. The kind you get from doing it over and over until muscle memory takes over.
“You cook for every stranger whose car you steal?” I ask.
His shoulders tense for a fraction of a second. “No, just you.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. Raw. Unexpected.
I don’t push.
“Sit,” he says without turning around.
“I’m fine standing.”
“Ayla.”
My name in his mouth is a warning and a promise all at once.
I sit on one of my stools.
He plates the food—pepper steak, and sets it in front of me with a fork
“Eat.”
I stare at the plate. “You’re very bossy.”
“And you’re very stubborn.”
“I prefer the term ‘independent.’”
“I prefer the term ‘pain in my ass.’”
My lips twitch despite myself. “That’s four terms.”
“Eat your fucking food, Beda.”
I pick up the fork. Take a bite. It’s good. Really good.
I hate that it’s good.
I hate that he’s standing there watching me eat with those cold blue eyes that seem to see everything I’m trying to hide.
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I ask around a mouthful.
“Calling you what?”
“Beda. Trouble.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “I told you before that’s what you are.”
“I’m not trouble. I’m just trying to survive.”
“Same thing.”
I set down my fork. “No, it’s not.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re hiding something. I’m going to find out what it is, so eat and then we’re going for a ride.”
I swallow.
Now I get why he cooked for me.
My last meal.