22. Chapter 22
Addy
It looked as if my apartment had been converted into a cardboard box factory. There were boxes everywhere. Big ones, small ones — some of which I’d definitely stolen from behind the liquor store, since desperation had killed any remaining sense of shame I might’ve had.
My bad luck had persisted. I’d exhausted every option, chased every freelancing gig and even tried applying for short-term positions, but I just couldn’t make ends meet. I wasn’t making enough money to pay the rent for this place, the second month in a row now.
The realization of what I had to do and of my failure at yet another thing hit me like a ton of bricks. I was sorting through things and packing on autopilot, trying to summon the unwavering optimism I usually displayed.
Sweat ran down my back. The August heat, combined with my attempt to save money by foregoing air conditioning, was doing its best to melt me into a goddamn puddle.
I’d turned on the TV for some background noise, leaving it on a local news channel I hadn’t deliberately chosen. I’d just let it autoplay because silence had started to feel a bit too honest lately.
Giving up on trying to stuff a stack of towels into an already overflowing box, something the anchor said suddenly caught my attention.
“… authorities are asking the public for any information regarding the escape of a convicted—”
I froze.
“… Sasha Markov…”
I choked, sending cinnamon dust down the wrong pipe. My eyes watered as I coughed, and the cereal box tipped dangerously in my lap. My brain was saying Nope, nope, nope. Absolutely not.
I stared at the TV in utter disbelief.
They’d put his face on the screen, and my first thought — my first, immediate, traitorous thought — was: Oh. That’s unfair.
Because he was devastating. He looked nothing like the vague mental image I’d created to protect myself and everything like the gift to womankind I’d once jokingly called him.
Sasha was lean, not bulky, with brown hair cut short at the sides and longer on top, as though he didn’t care how it looked as long as it stayed out of his eyes. His jaw was strong, mouth unsmiling, expression unreadable and his gaze piercing, even through the screen.
And fuck me, the tattoos.
They crawled up his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his prison uniform, black ink against pale skin forming a brutal yet beautiful pattern. My stomach flipped as I studied each line.
I could see more on his hands; his knuckles were marked and his wrists were inked, as if the art didn’t stop just because the clothes did. He looked as if he had been adorned by violence; as if every line meant something and none of it was for show.
His deep-set, intense eyes were framed by heavy brows giving him a permanently focused expression, as though he were always evaluating the room.
Heat hit me like a suckerpunch, immediate and treacherous, in the absolute opposite of the reaction I should have been having.
Fucking hell. This man was absolutely breathtaking.
The anchor continued talking, oblivious to my moral crisis.
“… escaped earlier this evening along with known associate Kyrill Ivanov … The two are believed to be armed and extremely dangerous …”
Kyrill. I knew that name; I had seen it in texts when Sasha had given me snippets of information about his life in prison.
“… Markov, who was sentenced to twenty-five years to life for the brutal murder of his stepfather, the successful Dallas businessman Steven Rhodes …”
Oh my fucking God. He was a murderer!
My thoughts were ricocheting inside my skull. A war broke out in my mind, with my rational side telling me it was insane to feel anything but disgust, while my crazy side was utterly entranced by this specimen of a man.
They cut to footage of the prison on the screen: flashing lights and guards everywhere. Then they cut back to Sasha’s face, as if daring me to reconcile this man with the one I talk to every day.
On the run.
Free.
My pulse went feral and I started pacing.
Okay. Okay. Breathe.
This is fine. This is not fine, but it is also definitely not my problem.
I’m safe. I’m so safe. I’m just a random woman in a messy, tiny apartment in Florida eating cereal in the dark. Why would he come for me?
Why would he even think about me?
Before I could fully process this thought, another one barreled straight through it.
He already knew where I lived. Even worse, one of his men had found me before.
My stomach dropped so hard, I had to sit back down but immediately got up again.
“No,” I said out loud, pacing and stepping over boxes, my hands shaking. “Nope. Absolutely not. He’s not coming here. He’s busy with fleeing the fucking country. Surely, he has … plans of some sort?”
This was ridiculous. I wasn’t important; I wasn’t part of his life. I was just a random pen pal he’d exchanged a few letters and texts with. A distraction. Replies at the other end of a contraband phone.
Sasha had bigger problems now, the fucking federal kind, or maybe even the international kind. I wasn’t a concern, I wasn’t even a motherflipping blip on his radar.
The news anchor said his name again.
Sasha Markov.
It sounded different out loud, somehow making him more real.
I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking my head. I laughed under my breath, a sharp, hysterical sound that didn’t feel humorous at all.
God, I was fucking loosing it.
“Okay,” I told the empty apartment, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Okay. You are spiraling.”
I’d fed Sasha enough small details that, if someone were motivated and terrifyingly competent—
There was a knock on my door.
I stared at it, frozen, the crunch of cereal under my bare foot echoing in my ears, my heart in my mouth. There was absolutely no reason on earth for this to be him.
None.
I crept towards the door anyway. Guess we were about to find out how many lives this curious cat right here had left.
My breath came in short bursts as I tried to move towards the door as quietly as possible, straining to hear anything. It was probably just Mrs. Mendoza from down the hall, needing some sugar or something.
Curse you, cheap-ass landlords, for not even giving us doors with a freaking peephole!
As I pulled the door open, my eyes almost popped out of my head. Eric, Princess’s owner, was standing in the hallway as though he’d been invited. His glasses were slightly crooked, his hands were in his pockets and he had the same too-wide smile on his face.
“Eric? What are you doing here?”
“Hi,” he replied cheerfully. “I knew you probably wanted me to come and help. So … here I am.”
I stood rooted to the spot, blinking at him. “Oh. Um … hey! You really didn’t have to—”
He stepped inside anyway, casually bypassing my frozen body, as if I’d invited him inside. The door clicked shut as he softly closed it behind him.
“No, no,” he said, smiling faintly. “I couldn’t stomach not being here for you. This moving business, it’s too much to shoulder alone. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t help you with this.”
Aside from a virtual stranger digging through my things?
I turned, trying to make sense of the words. When he disappeared into the living room, my limbs finally unfroze, and I stalked after him. He sounded incredibly invested in all of this. Why did I have to ramble in front of him?
“There’s really no need,” I said, gesturing toward the sea of boxes and tape. “Honestly, I—”
“Nonsense,” he interrupted, stepping closer, peering into one of the boxes like it was a precious artifact. “I know you secretly wanted me to help. Why else would you have told me about it? I couldn’t not come to help you.”
I swallowed, frowning slightly. “And that’s really so nice of you. But I’ve got this.”
His eyes sparkled — too bright, too keen. “No! Impossible. You cannot be fine. Not with this. Look at the chaos. I know you have to be overwhelmed. And I have a responsibility. To you. To make sure it goes well.”
I shifted awkwardly. “Uh … do you? I mean, again, I appreciate it, but—”
He crouched down next to a half-packed box as if he’d done this a thousand times before, carefully arranging a stack of shirts.
“See? That’s better already. Much better. If I’m not here, who will ensure everything gets done just right?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’ll see why I’m indispensable.” He straightened, stepping over a jumble of towels, eyes flicking around the room as though memorizing every detail. “And I can also catalog items. Inventory. You’ll thank me later.”
Okay, this was getting super weird.
I crossed my arms, laughing nervously. “Um, look, Eric … I really don’t know if this is such a good idea.”
“Of course it is! We’ll get this done in no time and we’ll have so much fun together. And I brought snacks, too.” He grinned, but it was too wide and too eager.
I raised an eyebrow. “Snacks?”
He produced a small bag of granola bars, baby carrots and crackers from somewhere behind him, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Mommy packed them for us.”
I gaped at him. “Oh! That’s, um, very nice.”
Oh God, what was happening here? This was creepy, right?
Eric beamed like he’d just presented me with a Michelin Star meal instead of baby carrots.
“Mommy always says you shouldn’t work on an empty stomach,” he added, already moving past me toward the kitchen like he knew where it was.
I stood there for a second, trying to process what the fuck was happening here.
Mommy always says.
“Right,” I said faintly, following him because apparently I had lost all control of my own apartment. “That’s, uh, solid advice.”
Could I just kick him out? Would that be rude?
Eric put the snacks on my already cluttered counter, turned and looked at me.
His gaze raked over me from head to toe, lingering uncomfortably. I shifted under his stare, suddenly hyper-aware of how short my shorts were and the absence of a bra.
Fucking hell.
“You didn’t have to come all the way over here. I mean, you have your mom and everything, and—”