Page 40 of Sexting the Pakhan

I let out a breath that almost breaks. “I want to go home.”

“I know.”

“Then take me home.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

This time he doesn’t answer.

There it is again. That wall. That silence. He decides what is necessary and then expects the world to adjust around it.

I close my eyes. For a second I’m back in the library, holding books to my chest, blushing because he noticed that I knew his usual day. I want to shake that version of me. I want to grab her by the shoulders and tell her to walk away. Let him find his own footage. Let him be handsome and mysterious from a distance. Let some other woman be stupid about him.

But that isn’t fair, is it? I didn’t know.

I was shelving books. That was all.

What have I gotten myself into?

The car stops in front of the house. Ruslan gets out first. The driver opens my door before I can touch the handle, and I flinch so visibly that his expression changes. Not pity exactly. Something close.

I hate that too.

Ruslan says something to him in Russian. Low. Quick. The driver steps back.

I climb out on my own.

The air is cold by the water. Wind pulls at my hair and slips under my torn cardigan. I wrap my arms around myself, partly from the chill and partly because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.

Ruslan looks at the cardigan. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I was shot at.”

A pause.

Then he says, “Fair.”

I look at him then, really look, and anger rises through the fear. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act normal for half a second and then go back to being terrifying.”

Something shifts in his face, too small to read. “I’m not trying to terrify you.”

“Congratulations. Natural talent.”

For a moment, I think I see the edge of a smile. It vanishes before it becomes one.

He gestures toward the house. “Inside.”

I don’t move. “No.”