Page 29

I lean against the doorframe, letting my eyes trail over her—the defiant tilt of her chin, the white-knuckle grip on her violin case, the way my shirt hangs off one shoulder. Something tightens in my chest but I force my face to remain blank.
"No, you don't." I keep my voice flat. "You hate that you don't hate me."
Her eyes flash. "Don't tell me what I feel."
"Why not? Your face does it for me." I push off the doorframe, stepping closer. "You're an open book, Evelyn. Every page screaming that you're fighting something you don't understand."
She slaps my hand away. "You think too highly of yourself."
A laugh escapes me—genuine, which surprises us both. "You're the first person to ever accuse me of that."
There’s a shift in her expression. For a second the mask slips and I glimpse the woman beneath—curious, complex, conflicted.
I step back, giving her space. "I need to go handle some things. You need anything while I'm out? Food? Clothes that actually fit?"
She blinks, thrown by the sudden change of topic. "I?—"
"Books? Something to keep you occupied besides plotting my murder?"
Her lips twitch, almost a smile before she catches herself. "I don't need anything from you."
"Suit yourself." I turn to leave, then pause. "But that violin case isn't much of a wardrobe. Unless you plan on wearing the same clothes until this is over."
She hugs the case tighter. "When will it be over?"
"When Ivan's no longer breathing, or I’m not." The truth slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes widen slightly. For once she doesn't have a sharp comeback.
"So," I continue, covering the moment of honesty, "Clothes? Food preferences? Or you want to keep playing the martyr?"
Evelyn stares at me for a long moment, her fingers drumming against the violin case. I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she weighs her options.
"Fine," she says, her voice clipped. "I'll make a list."
I raise an eyebrow, waiting.
"But I'll pay you back," she adds, lifting her chin. "Every penny. Once this is over and you let me go back to my life."
I almost laugh at her determination to maintain some control. Even trapped in my apartment, wearing my clothes, she's negotiating terms like we're in a business meeting.
"Sure, princess. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
She narrows her eyes. "I mean it, Noah. I don't want to owe you anything."
"You already owe me your life," I remind her. "But if tallying up some clothing expenses makes you feel better, knock yourself out."
Her cheeks flush with anger but she swallows whatever retort was forming. Instead she looks around. "Do you have paper? A pen?"
I nod toward the kitchen. "Drawer next to the fridge."
She hesitates, clutching her violin case like it might disappear if she sets it down. After a moment's deliberation she places it carefully on the bed and follows me to the kitchen.
I pull open the drawer, watching as she takes out a notepad and pen. Her hands are steady as she begins her list, her handwriting precise and elegant. Just like her music—controlled on the surface, wild underneath.
"I need actual clothes," she says, more to herself than to me. "Not just your T-shirts."
"Specific brands? Sizes?" I ask, leaning against the counter.