28. Taylor
TAYLOR
I stay home from work. I tell Anya that I’m not feeling well, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me, but she has an exam to take, so mercifully, she leaves me alone. I lock the door the second she leaves, and check all the windows. No black cars or men in dark coats. No one suspicious.
I turn my phone off, and I run back to bed and hide under the covers. I need to make a plan. I need to drop out and go home, I’m sure of it, but for today, I need to lie low and not get myself killed.
By noon, I almost begin to believe he will leave me alone.
By one, I understand that I am not afraid he will come. I am afraid he will not.
That realization makes me so angry that I clean the kitchen. I scrub the counter, reorganize the cabinet, throw away three expired packets of tea, and begin wiping the refrigerator shelves with enough force to remove paint.
I’m bent over the bottom drawer when someone knocks. My entire body freezes. Three slow knocks. Not Anya. She has a key. Not Petyr. He announces himself. The knock comes again.
I stand carefully. My phone is still on the table.
Too far away. There’s a knife in the drying rack.
I take it. The blade is small and serrated, designed for tomatoes.
I grimace, imagining how close I would have to be to stab someone with it, but I take it anyway.
I move toward the door without making a sound. A shadow blocks the light beneath it.
“Taylor.” Mikhail’s voice passes through the wood.
My fingers tighten around the knife. “Go away.”
“No.”
I close my eyes. Of course not. “I’m sick.”
“You are not.”
“You don’t know that.”
Then, quieter, “Open the door, Taylor.”
I should not. Every reasonable instinct says not to. Unfortunately, reason has accomplished very little for me lately.
I slide the chain into place before turning the lock. The door opens two inches. Mikhail stands in the hallway wearing a dark coat dusted with snow. He holds a paper shopping bag in one hand.
His gaze drops immediately to the knife. I follow it. “This is for vegetables,” I say.
“And it would do a poor job of that.”
“I could still stick you with it.”
“Stick me, huh?” A smile leaks across his face like he can’t contain it, and he quickly regains control of it.
“I hope you will not. If you hold it that way, you will cut yourself too.” I look at my hand.
“And boom, in that one second, I would have taken it from you. You are not a very good killer, Taylor. Leave that stuff to me.”
“You are making a very poor argument for not being terrifying.”
“I am not arguing that I am not terrifying, but I should not terrify you.”
My nose wrinkles, and a laugh escapes me like a surprised bark. “Do you even hear yourself?” I start to close the door.
He puts one gloved hand against it. The chain pulls tight. My pulse jumps. “Move your hand.”
“Let me in.”
“No.”
“I brought something.”
“I don’t care.”
He lifts the paper bag slightly. Something inside crinkles. My gaze betrays me. Mikhail notices with a satisfied smirk that lifts the scar on his cheek.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Open the door.”
“You could have a gun in there.”
“I do not need a grocery bag to hide a gun.”
I hate that it’s a good argument.
He reaches into the bag and removes a familiar silver packet.
Fritos. He holds the bag open and tips it forward toward me to show that it is stuffed to the brim with them.
Beneath the packets are four cans of root beer, the same kind Anya found at an import shop near the university months ago.
Not a Russian approximation. The actual thing.
I look from the cans to him. “How did you know about the drinks?”
“You told me.”
I stare at him. “You remembered.”
“Yes.” The answer is too simple.
I slide the chain free. Mikhail opens the door slowly, watching the knife until I set it on the table.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him.
The apartment becomes smaller around him.
He looks absurd here. Too controlled, too expensive, too broad for the narrow entryway and mismatched furniture.
His gaze travels over everything. The peeling paint near the window. The radiator that clicks without producing enough heat. The old lock.
I fold my arms. “Do not inspect my apartment.”
“I am looking.”
“You’re inspecting,” I say again.
He places the bag on the table. I take out the Fritos and the root beer, turning one of the cans over in my hand before putting them into the fridge. When I shut the door, I look back at him. “You know,” I say, “the Fritos were one thing. This is starting to feel like bribery.”
“It is not bribery.”
“Coming from you, that word has lost some credibility.”
His mouth twitches. For one second, he almost laughs.
I see it happen. The brief collapse of control, warmth threatening at the edges of his face.
The moment catches me off guard. Worse, it reminds me of the conservatory.
His hand reaching into the silver packet.
His ridiculous insistence that he hated the Fritos after finishing the bag. I look away first.
Mikhail ruins it immediately. “There will be rules.”
I turn back. “Excuse me?”
“You will not follow me again.”
“That was already low on my to-do list.”
“You will not discuss what you saw last night with anyone,” he says. My expression changes. “Not Anya. Not Petyr. No one.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good.”
“And you will not look into Orlov again.”
“That was also rapidly losing its appeal.”
“You will not access anything outside your assigned work.”
“How am I supposed to know which criminal documents are approved for interns?”
His expression hardens. “Taylor.”
“I get it.”
“And you will not leave your apartment at night without telling someone where you are going.”
I laugh. He doesn’t. My laughter dies. “You’re serious.”
“Of course.”
“By tell someone, you mean what? Call my mom?”
He sighs heavily like he is world-weary, and it’s all my fault. “Obviously not. I will give you an approved list of people to call.”
“Ha! Yeah, no.”
His eyes narrow. “No?”
“You don’t get to make rules for me.”
“These are not negotiable.”
“Or what? How about I just ignore you?”
He takes one step closer. I hold my ground.
“You saw men last night who now know your face. Vladimir searched your wallet before he brought you inside because you are smarter than you think you are but apparently not as smart as I thought you were. So they know your name. They expected you to be handled. And instead I kept you alive.” His jaw tightens.
“I bought you some protection last night by making them believe you are mine. But you do not seem to understand what happens to curious girls in this city. My city.”
I feel a chill across my spine. So many possessives with him. My city. Being mine. “I don’t know if this city is yours, but I’m not yours.”
Mikhail’s eyes drop to my mouth. The movement is small, but I feel it everywhere. I hate that too. I hate that my body remembers him independently of my fear. That some part of me still knows how his hands felt, how his voice changes when he’s close enough that no one else can hear it.
He steps nearer, and I don’t move back. “You should obey me, Taylor.”
“Obey you?” I stammer.
“Yes,” he says. “You stayed home because you were afraid of me.”
“Yes.”
“But you let me in. Why?” The air between us tightens. It is razor thin. My breath is on a tightwire, my chest heaving. “You can be afraid of me and still be attracted to me, Taylor. Those things can both be true.”
“They aren’t,” I whisper, but even I can hear how thin it sounds, how false.
“You will be a good girl, and you will follow the rules,” Mikhail says, still walking toward me. The spot between my legs pulses wildly. “And you are finished pretending you do not want me.”