Chapter 7
Kelly
Irub Clover’s ears and boop her nose. She doesn’t even twitch. We’re sprawled on my bed; my favorite show running in the background while I pretend it’s helping me de-stress from the long day.
It’s not working though; I can’t stop thinking about Alexei since he dropped me off at my apartment. The way he looked at me when I held his hand, I swear he wanted it, wanted me. But there’s something deeper under the surface that makes this complicated.
He’s involved in something I should stay far away from, that much is obvious. And he’s not out, not even close. If he even is gay or bi or whatever—then he’s shoved so far in the closet he probably doesn’t even admit it to himself.
I’m the one who clammed up when he asked what happened to me. I can’t even say it in my own head, let alone out loud.
How do you tell someone you were pathetic enough to stay with someone who hurt you? That you’re still trying to remember what it feels like to not constantly brace for impact?
A sudden knock at the door makes me sit up so fast it jolts Clover. She scrambles upright with her ears back, looking around like she’s ready to run for cover.
“My bad, sorry,” I mutter and pet her, trying to calm her down.
Who the hell would be at my apartment right now? Nobody knows where I live except Camilla.
Another knock comes, louder this time. My throat goes dry because the last time someone knocked unexpectedly, it was two cops arresting me.
“Kelly?” That heavy Russian accent.
What the fuck.
What is he even doing here? My hand shakes as I slide the bolt and pull the door open. Alexei fills the doorframe, and my brain short-circuits.
He’s wearing leather boots, black jeans, white shirt stretched tight across his chest, and a black leather jacket. His hair is perfect and slightly damp. The stubble’s longer than the last time I saw him. Every detail punches me in the gut and reminds me how out of my league he is.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Can I come in?”
I scratch at my head and nod, stepping aside so he can pass.
My brain still can’t wrap around why he’s here at my apartment.
We’re not friends, we don’t even really know each other.
The only reason I know his name is because he broke into my clinic, held me at gunpoint, and then basically kidnapped me from a club.
And a part of me is still drawn to him. I’m definitely losing it.
He steps inside, and I shut the door behind him. As he moves about into the living room, I take in the mess scattered across the floor.
Boxes half-open, stuff everywhere from when Camilla and I started sorting through things the other day. We ended up going out instead, and I never finished cleaning up. Now it just looks like I live in complete chaos. My stomach twists. This is so embarrassing.
“What are you doing here? How did you even know which apartment is mine or what floor I live on?”
He stops moving and looks over at me, and something’s definitely off. I can feel it radiating from him like heat. There’s an edge to his posture, anger maybe, or irritation, like something happened before he came here.
He opens his mouth like he’s about to answer, but a rustle sounds from my bedroom. His head snaps toward the sound, and before I can explain, he’s already moving down the hall toward my room.
Okay, sure, help yourself to a tour of my apartment …
I almost slam into his back when he stops in the doorway. Clover’s rolling onto her side, scratching at her fur with her back leg.
“Is that a rabbit?” His thick accent almost makes me laugh despite everything. I bite my cheek to keep it in.
“Yeah. I adopted her a few days ago. Her name’s Clover.”
He looks back at me, standing close enough now that I can smell his cologne. There’s something that almost looks like concern across his face. I can’t read the expression properly, but I wonder what the hell happened to bring him to my door tonight.
“Alexei, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to text me, not just drop by. And you can’t just walk into someone’s home uninvited.”
He licks his lips. “I don’t know why I’m here.” He drags a hand over his damp hair, then looks at me; I can’t decipher his expression.
“Is something wrong?”
He shakes his head once, but the tension in his shoulders says otherwise.
“Okay, then why are you here? Really? Why did you want to see me? We’re not friends.”
Clover makes another rustling sound, and his head whips toward her.
“Do you want to hold her?”
He shakes his head. “Nyet. I don’t want to accidentally hurt her.”
What does that mean?
“If you sit on the bed, I can give her to you. She’s not fragile, and you won’t hurt her.”
I have no idea what I’m doing right now. Why am I offering this dangerous man a spot on my bed and a chance to pet my rabbit? My life has taken such a strange turn since the day he walked into my clinic that I don’t even recognize it anymore.
He looks at me with something that almost passes for vulnerability, then crouches and unties his boots. He slips them off, walks over to the bed, and sits carefully on the edge.
I pick Clover up and carry her over, holding her out to him. Our fingers brush when he takes her from me. My eyes flick up to find his already watching my face. Heat crawls up my neck. I step back quickly, rubbing the back of my head like that’ll somehow cover my reaction.
He lowers his gaze to Clover, handling her with careful, almost tentative movements. She sniffs at him, twitching her nose in curiosity.
My chest feels like it’s folding in on itself watching this.
This terrifying Russian is sitting on my bed, looking uncertain about how to hold a small rabbit.
My heart aches for him in a way I probably shouldn’t allow.
He doesn’t look like someone who has real friends.
The life he lives must be incredibly lonely.
He’s not trying to hide what he is. I know he’s dangerous, and I can feel it radiating from him every second I’m with him.
But all I keep thinking is that maybe underneath all that violence, he’s also just alone.
Just like me … Am I seriously painting a sympathetic picture of someone who could be a serial killer? Apparently so.
I move across the bed slowly, watching his reaction to see if he’s okay with me getting closer. He doesn’t react or seem to care, so I join him and lean against the headboard.
“I didn’t know rabbits were so soft and could be so—how do you say … fluffy?”
I smile. “Yeah, she’s a special breed. Lionhead. They get that fluff around the ears and face. Kind of ridiculous, but they’re actually smart and make good pets.”
He nods and scratches behind her ears with gentleness. Clover flops down right on his lap, legs stretched out and eyes half-lidded. I guess she feels sorry for him too.
Both of us are pathetic since I’m imagining what it would feel like if he pulled me into his lap right now. The weight of his arms. The warmth.
Jesus, I need to stop.
“Can I ask you something?”
His gaze lifts to me, steady and waiting.
“Why didn’t you shoot me? That night you broke into the clinic?”
“I didn’t want to kill you.”
My stomach twists. “But you have killed before?”
His eyes narrow just a fraction. “Yes.”
He confirms it the way most people would when they’ve seen a movie.
That casual honesty should probably terrify me more than it does.
He’s killed people. I’m in my bedroom with a killer.
This is the part where normal people call the police or at least leave the room.
Maybe those therapy sessions weren’t working as well as I thought.
“But you won’t kill me?”
“No.”
I nod and reach out to scratch Clover’s ear, grounding myself in the familiar motion. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“What’s your favorite movie?” I ask, trying to break the heavy tension that settled between us.
“Movie?”
“Yeah. Like what you watch on TV.”
“I know what a television is.”
“Okay, so what’s your favorite?” I grin a little at his defensive tone.
He thinks for a second, still stroking Clover’s fur. “The Goonies.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “Wait, seriously? The old movie from the eighties? With the pirate ship and the kids in the cave?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Da. It was the first movie I saw when I came to America. My mother wanted us to watch American classics while we were learning English. I didn’t understand anything they were saying.”
I smile while he appears slightly … amused? Or close enough to it.
“It’s a good movie,” he adds.
“Yeah, I know, I haven’t seen it in a while. So you moved to the US when you were a kid? With your family?”
“When I was ten. With my mother, my father, and my four brothers.”
I blink because that’s a lot of family to imagine. “I’m an only child,” I blurt.
“I know.”
I roll my eyes. “Where do you even find information like that about me? What kind of files do you keep on people?”
He doesn’t answer, just looks at me like I’m being dramatic about something obvious.
“Do you miss Russia?”
His throat moves slowly. He thinks about it for a moment before looking over at me, his expression softening just enough to notice. “Very much,” he says, voice dropping lower. “It’s a nice place to grow up. I miss my family there.”
It never occurred to me that Russia could be a nice place to grow up in.
Everything I know about it comes from headlines.
Political disasters, restrictions, the whole authoritarian mess.
But that’s not what he’s talking about, is it?
He’s talking about home. About family. The place itself probably doesn’t matter as much as the people in it.
“What city did you live in?”
“Yekaterinburg.”
“Oh, I’m not even going to try to pronounce that,” I say, half-laughing while rubbing the back of my neck. “I’d completely butcher it.”
His mouth twitches, and for half a second, it looks like he’s trying not to smile.
When I first saw him, he came off as cold, looked like a career criminal. Tattoos covering his skin, all bulging muscles.
But here, watching him carefully pet Clover, he seems almost gentle. Which is probably exactly what serial killers want you to think before they murder you.
Jesus, I need professional help again.
His eyes flick down to my collarbone for a second before darting away.
“Alexei …” I say, then bite my lip because I already regret starting this conversation.
“What are you really doing here?”
His head snaps toward me.
“I had a bad day.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I study him while he focuses on Clover. The tattoos on his neck are intricate, wrapping around his throat and disappearing under his shirt. His nose has been broken at least once. Maybe more.
There’s a visible bump and a mark cutting across the bridge. His hands dwarf Clover completely, covered in ink and old wounds. One particularly thick scar runs across his knuckles, raised even under the tattoo covering it.
He sighs. “Nyet.”
I look over at him into his brown eyes. He looks sad, though I don’t really know how to explain it. God damnit, why am I feeling bad for someone who has actually murdered people?
“What do you like doing? Like hobbies, I mean.” I ask.
I want to know more about him. He’s too big of a mystery to me.
He licks his lips. “I don’t really know. I just do whatever my family tells me to do.”
I blink. He doesn’t know?
What does he mean, whatever his family tells him to do? “Wait, you don’t have anything you do just for yourself? Nothing you enjoy?”
He’s quiet for a second. “Never really thought about it.”
That’s ... sad. Really sad. Before I can push further, he turns it back on me.
“What about you, Kelly?”
My eyes widen. I clear my throat, not prepared for the question. “Well, right now I work and take care of Clover, I guess. I don’t really want to work at that clinic though. The most exciting thing that’s happened to me there was you breaking in.” I shoot him a grin, trying to lighten the mood.
He raises an eyebrow. “I doubt that was a fun experience for you.”
He’s not wrong. “It wasn’t, at first. But ...” I trail off. “I don’t know. You’re interesting. Intimidating, but interesting.”
“Intimidating?” He sounds almost amused.
I give him a look.
He waves me off before I can say anything. “Fair.”
I grin at him. “So, seriously, nothing? No hobbies at all? What do you do when you’re not ... working?”
He considers it. “I fix things sometimes. Broken locks, pipes, whatever needs repairing. I guess. I’m good at building things.”
“You fix and build things?” I can’t hide my surprise.
“Keeps me busy. I like using my hands for something other than ...” He trails off, shakes his head. “Fixing things is simple.”
His phone starts ringing, and he pulls it out with a sigh. “I need to go.” He puts Clover down gently on the bed and gets up.
I trail after him to the front door. He puts his hand on the handle. Then stops, turning around to look into my eyes.
“Can I come over again?”
The question should set off alarms. It does set off alarms. He just showed up uninvited, acted like this was normal. My ex used to do that. Show up without asking. Act like he had a right to my space.
But this doesn’t feel the same. I don’t know why it doesn’t feel the same.
I bite my lip and nod before I can think better of it. “Sure.”
He nods. I see him glance at my mouth before looking away quickly. Then the door opens, and he disappears into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him.
I don’t know what any of that was about, but the top three weirdest nights of my life have all involved him being part of them. I’m either losing my mind or getting myself into something I should definitely stay away from.
Probably both.
The smart thing would be to not answer the door next time. The safe thing would be to tell him not to come back. But some fucked up part of me wants to see him again. Wants him to come back.
And that part scares me more than anything else.