Chapter 32 Ayla
Ayla
“Why do I have to wear this?” I ask, tugging at the hem of the dress like it might grow longer if I bully it.
The fabric is silk-smooth, deep purple—matching the streaks in my hair like he planned it, and it clings to me like a threat.
It’s tight across my ribs, short enough that I feel exposed every time I breathe, and the heels he handed me earlier are black patent torture devices with a strap that feels like it’s laughing at my ankles.
I’m a boots girl. Boots mean I can run. Boots mean I can kick. These mean I can… die elegantly.
I wobble into the kitchen doorway, one hand braced on the frame like I’m entering a crime scene. After a few steps I find the rhythm, small and careful, but I still feel ridiculous. Like I’m wearing someone else’s life.
Maksim stands at the island, back to me. Black button-down, pressed sharp. Sleeves rolled up. Ink crawling down his forearms. Tailored slacks. Put-together in a way that makes him look even more dangerous, just… formal-dangerous. The kind that gets away with things.
“Where are we going?” I ask again, louder.
He turns.
And he’s holding flowers.
Yellow ones. A small, messy bundle tied with rough twine, petals bright and ragged at the edges.
I freeze mid-step. The heels click once, awkwardly.
“What… is that?”
He shoves them toward me without ceremony, like handing over contraband he’s embarrassed to be caught with.
I take them automatically. They’re light. Slightly damp at the stems. A few tiny bugs crawl along one leaf and I flick them off without thinking.
“What do you want me to do with these?”
“They’re for you.”
I stare at him. Then at the flowers. Then back at him.
“Why are you giving me these?”
“They’re dandelions.”
I laugh—short, disbelieving. “No, they’re not.”
“Yes. They are.”
“No. Dandelions are white. Fluffy. You blow on them when you make wishes and the seeds scatter like little parachutes.”
His eyes narrow like I’m making this harder on purpose. “Those are dead dandelions. These are alive.”
I look down again. The yellow is so bright it almost hurts. Stubborn little suns on sticks.
“Technically weeds,” he adds, voice flat. “I don’t know why you wanted them in the first place.”
“I didn’t want them.”
His jaw ticks. Just once. “When I asked what your favorite flower was, you said dandelion.”
“Vaska asked me that.” I narrow my eyes. “Not you.”
The kitchen goes quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in.
Maksim’s gaze holds mine like he wants to win this with force and can’t.
“Ayla,” he says, low, almost pained. “Don’t do that.”
I tilt my head. “Don’t do what?”
“I’m taking you out.”
I frown. “Out?”
“On a date.”
“Date?”
“Ayla.” He gestures at me, then himself, like he’s explaining a plan he doesn’t fully understand. “That’s why you’re wearing the dress. That’s why I’m in this.”
I glance down at the purple silk again. My heart trips like an idiot.
“Where the hell are we going that we need to be dressed like this?”
He rubs a hand over his jaw, the motion rough, like he wants to sand the feeling off his skin. “Somewhere nice.”
Nice sounds wrong coming from him. Like it scrapes his throat on the way out.
“Nice,” I echo, because I can’t help it.
He watches me with those icy, unreadable eyes—the ones that usually promise violence or possession.
Right now they look… uncertain. Like he’s bracing for me to laugh.
I clutch the dandelions tighter. One petal shakes loose and drifts to the floor between us.
He steps closer, slow, deliberate, and reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger against my cheek, warm, callused.
“I’m trying,” he says, quieter than I’ve ever heard him. “To do something… normal.”
Normal.
The word hangs there, absurd and fragile.
I swallow. My throat feels tight.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath.
Then he offers his arm. Formal. Almost ridiculous coming from him.
“Come on, Beda. Before I change my mind and burn the dress.”
I hesitate. Just a second.
Then I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow. His arm is solid, warm through the fabric. Steady.
The heels click against the tile as we walk toward the door.
I’m still holding the dandelions. Yellow. Alive.
And somehow, mine.
***
La Jardin Rouge smells like butter, garlic, and money.
Three things that have no business being in the same room with me.
The place is all low lights, white tablecloths, and waiters who glide like they’re on rails.
Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen rain.
Every surface is polished to a mirror shine.
I feel like a stray cat someone dragged in off the street.
Maksim sits across from me, looking exactly as out of place as I feel, but for different reasons.
He’s too big for the delicate chair, too sharp for the soft jazz humming in the background.
His forearms rest on the table like he’s claiming territory, and every time the waiter approaches, the poor guy flinches just a fraction before remembering his lines.
I would’ve been happier with drive-thru burgers in the front seat of his car, grease on my fingers, windows cracked, city noise drowning out everything else. That would’ve made sense.
This?
This feels like he’s trying to prove something.
To me. To himself.
He said he’s trying to do normal. I still don’t get why.
The waiter sets down my plate—some kind of seared scallop thing with a sauce that looks like liquid gold and tiny green dots I’m pretty sure are edible. I poke at it with the fork. It’s beautiful. I’m not sure I trust beautiful.
Maksim’s already cut into whatever steak they brought him.
He nods at the dandelions I insisted on keeping. They’re sitting in a water glass between us.
“So,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear it over the room. “You wanted the dead ones.”
I shrug and take a small bite of scallop. It’s stupid good—warm and buttery and unfair.
“I’ve never really gotten flowers before,” I say, not looking at him. “But there was this field my mom and I used to walk by when I was little.”
The memory opens quiet. Tall grass. Sun heat. Her hand in mine. White puffs everywhere.
My chest pinches—sharp, dumb.
I swallow it.
I glance up. He’s watching me like he’s waiting for the knife part.
“There were fluffy white dandelions,” I say. “I’d blow them. Make wishes. Kid stuff.”
“What did you wish for?”
The question lands too soft. It makes my shoulders tense.
I give him a short laugh and stare at my plate like it has answers. “Random things.”
His eyes don’t move. They stay on me. Patient. Like a predator that knows eventually the animal slips.
I poke at the scallops just to do something with my hands. “I just… never realized the yellow ones were dandelions too. I’ve seen them growing through cracks in the sidewalk and never connected it.”
“Because they’re weeds,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Okay. I get it. I don’t know flowers.”
Something in his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Like the idea of me admitting I don’t know something is… new.
He lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, and keeps watching me while he does it like he’s daring me to get uncomfortable.
“So,” I say, because silence with him always turns into a trap. “This is a date with Maksim Korsakov?”
“Maksim Korsakov doesn’t date.”
“Apparently not.” I gesture around with my fork. “Why this place?”
“It’s quiet.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His gaze slides past me, quick, scanning the room without turning his head. “It’s the only place where people don’t think they know me.”
I look around. Nobody staring. Nobody whispering. Nobody pretending not to look while they text.
“Not your territory,” I say. “Whose is it?”
His eyes come back to mine. Cold. Flat. “Eat.”
I huff a laugh under my breath and take another bite because pushing him too hard right now will make him shut down and I didn’t come here to babysit his mood.
We eat in a silence that isn’t peaceful. It’s… loaded. Like the tablecloth is hiding a weapon.
Then he breaks it.
“How many bodies do you have?”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth.
His expression is calm, but his eyes glint—small, dangerous. Like he said it just to see what I’d do.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
He leans forward slightly. “Don’t play innocent, Beda.”
My brain does a hard reset.
Bodies.
I swallow. “I think… twenty—”
His brows lift. He blinks once. Then a rough chuckle slips out of him, genuinely caught.
“Twenty?” he says, like the number amused him. “Your number starts with twenty?”
I stare at him. “Are we counting men and women?”
He stills.
“Men and women,” he repeats, slow, like he’s tasting the words.
“Just men then,” I assume, because my mouth is moving faster than my brain and now I’m committed to whatever humiliation this is.
His eyes go darker. “Women?” His voice drops.
I blink. Finally, it clicks.
My face goes hot so fast it’s like someone poured boiling water down my neck.
“Wait,” I say, low and horrified. “Are you talking about sex?”
He pauses. Flat stare. “Yes.”
My stomach drops through the floor.
“What are you talking about, Ayla?”
His gaze goes still in a way that’s worse than anger.
Recognition.
“Kills,” he hisses voice quiet.
I don’t breathe.
His pupils swallow the blue.
“Kills,” he says again, slower. “Why would you have to kill that many people?”
He’s putting it together. The running. The scars. The way I always know where the doors are. He’s going to see me. All of me.
I’m fucked.
“Self-defense,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Big city. Shitty part of town.”
He doesn’t blink. “Where do you put the bodies, Ayla?”
The way he says my name—no nickname, no humor, makes my spine go rigid.
I meet his eyes. Hold the stare. Make myself steel.
“Where do you put yours, Maksim?”
For a beat, neither of us moves.
Then he leans back, slow and practiced, like I passed some kind of test. The smirk returns, smaller, sharper. Almost approving.
“Fair enough,” he murmurs.
His eyes flick to my mouth, then back up. Like he’s already decided how he’s going to claim whatever secrets I’m still hiding.
The waiter sets the dessert menus down with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
Neither of us looks at him.
The menus sit between us, untouched. The jazz keeps playing somewhere overhead, soft and meaningless, like the whole restaurant exists in another world.
Maksim is still watching me.
Calculating.
Like he’s sorting pieces of a puzzle in his head and deciding where they fit. His fingers tap once against his glass. Slow. Thoughtful.
“Twenty,” he says quietly.
The word lands heavy between us, cataloged.
Filed.
My jaw tightens.
“Don’t,” I say.
The corner of his mouth curves, barely there. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.
“I’ll remember that.”
The jazz plays on.
The waiter waits.
And across the table, Maksim Korsakov keeps looking at me like he’s just discovered something he intends to unravel.