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For the first time in years, I feel real fear.

Not even with Matvei did I feel like this.

My muscles tense.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I saw something that unnerved me, but I couldn’t tell you what."

His voice is low, unreadable. "Try."

His grip tightens just enough to ground me. Just enough to force me back to the present.

Swallowing hard, I glance back to where the figure had been. But there’s nothing.

Maybe it’s just paranoia catching up to me.

I shake my head. "I’m okay."

He doesn’t press, just nods. Then he takes my hand, leading me forward, on the outside of the road, as always. Close enough that our arms brush—a silent shield between me and the rest of the world.

And then, I continue to shop.

I love it. I come to life when I shop—the fabrics, the scents, the colors. Something new and shiny.

"Can I help you?" a woman asks, looking down her nose at me.

But before I can respond, Matvei’s voice cuts through.

"Scratch that."

I blink at him.

"We’re done here," he says. "Let’s go home."

And for the first time, I like hearing him say the wordhome.

It’s not home.

But why does it feel that way?

Why do I like the way his fingers tighten around mine?

Why does it send a thrill through me when he leans in and smells me?

Why do I love the way he opens the door for me and gestures for me to go in first?

I love all of it.

But my mind is back on my past, the rejection from the Irish, the pain that took away my choices.

I stare out the window, fingering the edge of the bag in my lap.

"You spoiled me today," I say.

"If buying you what you need is spoiling, then you and I have different definitions of the word."

"Really? What does it mean to you?"