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His eyes darken. "I didn’t. Are you giving me shit?”

I shake my head.

We stare at each other, and the air between us shifts. Not just hunger. Something stranger. Older.

"Maybe you’ve been stalkingme," he says, his voice low and dangerous.

My breath catches. “Is that a joke?” I laugh to cover the way my pulse spikes. "You wish."

But my hands tremble when I touch the book lying on the desk. My fingerprints have never been on this one—but it still feels like it’s mine.

Or his.

Or ours.

“And so being young and dipped in folly…” My voice trails off.

“I fell in love with melancholy,” Matvei finishes.

My head snaps up.

Something behind his gaze flickers. Sharp. Knowing.

Vulnerable.

My pulse beats faster. Maybe he’s been watching me longer than I thought? But no, that doesn’t make sense…

I glance down at another page, my voice quieter now. “Deep into that darkness, peering, long I stood there…”

“Wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams…” His voice trails off. I mentally complete the line.

…no mortal ever dared to dream before.

The doorbell rings, soft and delicate, like wind chimes. It doesn’t belong in a house like this, too pretty for all this dark wood and sharp edges. I glance at him, curious.

He shrugs. "Food."

Oh. Right. I almost forgot. I’ve been too distracted by him—his hands, his voice, the weight of his attention.

Our shared madness.

He locks the door behind him and double-checks it like a man who’s never been safe a single day in his life. And when we head for the living room, his hand finds mine again… like it belongs there.

"Sit on the couch," he orders. "Hands in your lap, where I can see them."

He tries to sound sharp, but some of the bite is gone. He’s not as angry anymore—just possessive. Watchful.

I nod like the obedient little brat he thinks I am and give him mocking servitude. “Yes, sir."

He doesn’t trust my obedience. I can feel his eyes drilling into my back as I walk to the couch, which means—he’s exactly where I want him. I wink over my shoulder, and his jaw ticks.

He checks the peephole. Checks the cameras. Touches the gun at his hip before unlocking the door. He doesn’t trust anyone—not the delivery guy, not the air, not the night itself.

It should be sad, and it is, but mostly, it’s familiar.Toofamiliar.

A few minutes later, I’m sitting cross-legged on his couch, a spread of food in front of us. Greasy, messy chicken wings, hot, salted fries, and sticky rice. None of it belongs together, but I want all of it.

"Hands off,” he says.