Chapter 10
Alexei
Ihaven’t seen Kelly in two days. Haven’t seen him leave his apartment at all, for that matter.
Something’s off and it’s eating at me. He could be sick. People get sick in the fall, especially someone who works around animals and germs all day. That’s the logical explanation. The normal explanation.
But I was forced to leave to handle another interrogation for my father. What if I missed something while I was gone? What if someone got to him?
What is it about him that’s made me like this? I’ve never wanted anyone this way. Maybe it’s because he’s the first person who’s touched me like I matter. Like contact with me is something good instead of something to endure. Now I’m addicted to it. To him.
I can’t stop thinking about his hands, his warmth, the way he doesn’t pull away when I get close. I want more. Need more. Like I’m trying to fill some endless void that’s been empty my whole life.
I stare at his building, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel in the same pattern I’ve been repeating since I parked here.
I even sent him a text yesterday. Just asked if everything was fine. Casual. Normal.
He left me on read. On fucking read.
Maybe he doesn’t want to see me again. I wouldn’t blame him for that. Any sane person would run from me. But he did say I could come over again.
The thought of him hiding from me makes something ugly and possessive twist in my chest. Makes me want to go upstairs and prove to him that locked doors don’t mean anything to me. That if I want to see him, I will. Nothing stops me.
The only thing holding me back is knowing he’d look at me the way everyone else does when they finally see what I really am.
Still doesn’t stop me from sitting here watching his windows for any flicker of movement that might tell me he’s alive. Something’s wrong. I can feel it crawling under my skin, that animal instinct that tells me when things aren’t right.
I’m not going to go upstairs and check on him. That would scare him. Blyat. This restraint thing really is harder than killing people.
Fuck it.
I pull my hood up against the wind that bites at my jaw. Cross the street fast with my head down, punch in the code I memorized already. Up the stairs two at a time until I reach his floor.
I knock.
I’m trying to be polite by knocking, even though I could already be inside if I wanted to.
He’s not answering.
I knock again, harder this time. Still nothing.
I glance down the empty hall and listen for footsteps, voices, anything. There’s nothing except silence and the hum of that busted exit sign above the stairwell.
I stare at his door and try to picture him. Just asleep. Sick. Ignoring me on purpose because he’s finally figured out that I’m fucked up.
No. That’s not right. I know his schedule better than he does.
I pull out his apartment key.
He’ll forgive me if he’s alive and unhurt. He has to.
I push the door open to complete darkness and silence. No lights anywhere, no sound of movement or breathing. I move further in and let the door close behind me with a click that echoes too loud in the stillness.
Maybe I screwed up and missed him leaving. I walk through anyway toward the bedroom without turning on any lights or calling his name. If he’s here, he’ll hear me coming, and if he’s not, then I’ll know soon enough.
The bedroom’s darker. I pause at the threshold to scan across the space until I see a lump under the covers. I walk to the bed and stop. He’s not moving, not even the slight rise and fall of breathing that I can detect. I watch him for a long moment, then sit slowly on the edge of the mattress.
The second my weight shifts, he jerks violently, and the scream that tears out of him is so high-pitched it makes me blink and my ears ring. He groans like it physically hurts to move and scrambles back against the wall. Pressing himself as far away from me as possible.
I can barely make him out in the darkness, but I can feel him staring at me with what’s probably terror.
Right. I still have my hood up.
That’s probably why he screamed like that. The hood makes me look like the grim fucking reaper sitting on his bed in this darkness. Which is almost funny because I’ve been called worse things.
I pull it down and tilt my head at him. “You weren’t answering your door.”
“A-Alexei? What the fuck?” he chokes out. “How did you get in here?”
“I have a copy of your key,” I say, because there’s no point in lying about it.
“What?”
“I made a copy. Can’t really have one of your neighbors see me crouched in front of your door picking the lock.
Might have to kill them.” I pause and think it over.
“I could just stage an accident and push them down the stairs. Depends on how loud they scream. Your building has thin walls, very thin. Your next-door neighbor, Mrs. Smith, would probably call the cops. She seems like the type. Whole thing becomes messy, and I don’t like mess. ”
“Oh my god,” he breathes, voice strained and horrified. “Stop. Please stop talking like that. You can’t just say things like that.”
He doesn’t want to hear about the neighbor situation. Fair enough.
I’m supposed to keep the killing theoretical and private. Not explain exactly how I’d push someone down the stairs and make it look accidental. That makes him nervous.
I’ll have to try keeping it vague from now on.
It’s too dark to see his face properly, but I don’t need to see it to know he’s panicking. I can hear it in his breathing, the way his voice shook when he said my name earlier.
I walk over to the light switch. “Wait, don’t.”
My finger hovers over the switch. I flip it on anyway and look at him. He’s pulled the covers over himself again.
“Just please don’t freak out, okay? It looks worse than it is. I’m fine, I promise, and please stop talking about killing my neighbor.”
He drags the blanket down slowly. Half his face is purple and swollen, scraped raw in places like he was dragged across concrete. His hands fist the sheets like he’s trying to hide them. I see the bruises there too, running up his chest and scattered across his arms.
“What the fuck happened?”
I’m going to kill whoever touched him, rip them apart so slowly they’ll beg me for death, and I won’t show mercy.
“Nothing, I just fell off my bike on the way home from work. It’s fine, I’m fine.” He rubs the back of his head and tries to give me a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I don’t buy it.
I move to the bed and sit in front of him, my hands going up before I can stop them. I want to touch, to check, to prove he’s lying. He flinches and moves further away from me.
“There is no way a fall from a bike did that. What happened?” I bite out.
“No, really. I fell off my bike. There was this lady who cut in front of me, and I shot forward and hit the asphalt.”
“What lady? What was her name?”
“What?”
I’m going to find her and break her in fucking half, put her under the pavement she shoved him into. I don’t say that out loud though. Learning.
“That doesn’t matter. It was just an accident.”
“It was really an accident?” I pull out my phone and shoot a quick message to Daniil.
I’ll get this woman’s name, and then I’ll pay her a visit.
“Yes.”
“Can we just go back a little? What do you mean you made a copy of the key to my apartment?” he asks, staring at me like I’ve lost my mind completely.
“For emergencies,” I say with a shrug, because it’s obvious.
He opens his mouth, shuts it again, pinches the bridge of his nose. “In Russia, do they not teach you basic social norms? Like personal space? Or that making a copy of someone’s key when you barely know them is completely insane?”
“It was good that I did it. This was an emergency, and now I can take care of you.”
He groans under his breath and rubs at his eyebrows again, muttering something I don’t catch.
I don’t care what he calls it. He can call it weird, insane, whatever word makes him feel safe.
I know I’m right. If I hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t be here, and he’d be alone.
Hurt, with no one to help him. That thought makes my chest tight, and my jaw clench. He doesn’t understand yet, but he will.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
“No … I cut up some vegetables for Clover earlier and ate a little of that.”
“Then it’s good I made a copy of that key.”
“Jesus Christ.” He drags a hand down his face. “I’m just going to ignore this for now, okay? Because I am really desperate and I do need help, and some company would be nice.”
“I’m going to order us food,” I say, my phone already in my hand while I’m pulling up nearby restaurants to check what delivers to this area.
We sit on the bed with cartons of Chinese takeout between us. I went and got his laptop, set it up, and let him pick what to watch. He asked for How I Met Your Mother. From what I’ve seen on his computer, it’s always that show.
“The entire show is just him oversharing to his kids about his love life?” I ask, popping a piece of chicken in my mouth.
Kelly scrunches his nose and looks over at me. “When you put it like that, yeah. But it’s a funny show.”
I hum and shove more food into my mouth.
I want to ask him to come closer, but the words won’t come out. I’ve spent my whole life pushing people away. Now I don’t know how to pull them in. The screen doesn’t hold my attention. I’m watching him, and he looks completely wrecked. We finish eating and another episode rolls.
I don’t buy the bike story.
Those green eyes are too dull, too sad. He usually has this light in them, even when he’s exhausted. Right now, all I see is pain buried underneath, sadness bleeding through no matter how hard he tries to hide it from me. He’s lying. I know what his lies look like.
Something happened, and he doesn’t want to tell me. I want to ask, but I can see how fragile he is right now. Pushing him will only make him retreat further. He’ll tell me when he’s ready, when he feels safe enough. I just have to be patient and show him that whatever it is, I’m not going anywhere.
“Is it okay if I take a quick shower?” he asks.
I nod. Get off the bed, move to his side, and hold out my hand. He stares at it for a second like he’s not sure he should trust it. Then lets me pull him up. The sound he makes when his feet hit the floor, that wheeze of pain, makes something violent twist in my chest.
I walk him to the bathroom, flick the light on, push the door open, and go straight to the shower to pull the curtain back and turn on the water. When I turn, he’s staring at the floor with his chin wobbling like he’s about to break completely.
My hands ache with the need to touch him. To pull him close and tell him it’s going to be okay. To be the kind of person who knows how to comfort someone without breaking them further. But I’m not. So, I just stand here, watching him almost fall apart, wishing I knew how to catch him.
“Thanks,” he says, voice so low I barely catch it.
“Do you need help getting in?”
“No. It’s fine. Thanks.”
I walk out to give him privacy.
I pause at his kitchen counter, eyeing that chipped blue mug sitting unwashed by his sink, the one he uses every morning. Would he notice if it disappeared? Of course. It’s obviously his go-to. But accidents happen. Mugs shatter, get lost.
Still dirty from this morning’s coffee. Mine.
Clover’s sitting on the floor watching me when I come into his room. I scoop her up and carry her to the bed, and I lie with her on my chest while I wait and listen to the water running.
He comes out wrapped in a towel, moving slow and careful. The need hits me hard and spreads through my chest like poison. This is wrong on every level. I want him too much.
It’s against everything I was raised to be. It’s everything my family would never accept. When I look into his green eyes, none of it matters though. All I want is to drag him down to me and keep him there, tell him it’s going to be alright even if it’s a lie.
“Can I lie with you?” he asks, biting his lip.
“Da.”
He hesitates, then lowers himself onto the bed, groaning as he stretches his legs out.
I sit up and lift Clover, setting her in her usual spot on the side of the bed. Then cross the room to switch off the light before coming back to pull the covers over him. He’s still only wearing the towel, but it doesn’t matter.
I lie on my side beside him. My hand brushes against his warmth under the covers, heat radiating off his skin in the dark. My chest tightens. It’s nothing, just skin contact, but it feels like fire.
I want to hold him still, keep him against me, keep him safe from whatever did this to him. I’ve gone my whole life without needing to be touched. Now I can’t think about anything else. What did he do to me?
My hand trails up his waist and around his stomach. I pull him against me carefully. His head turns toward me, uncertain, but he doesn’t pull away. He shifts closer and lets his head rest in the crook of my arm.
I wrap my arm around his back and drag him closer. One of his legs crosses over mine as I slide my other hand down to his lower back. He’s soft against me, too soft, and every part of me wants to take more. I hold him close instead, burying the want under control.
His weight sinks into me. It feels wrong how right this is.
I should let go, but I don’t. I can’t.