Page 22 of Twisted Pact

The second covers the garage.

The third stops me cold.

It’s not aimed at the house.

It’s aimed at Mila’s bedroom window.

Someone isn’t just watching the family.

They’re watching her.

And that doesn’t sit well with me.

7

Mila

Three days in this safe house, and I understand why prisoners lose their minds.

It’s nice enough, with modern furniture, a stocked kitchen, and an endless forest outside the windows. But luxury doesn’t change the fact that I’m trapped here by a man who either pretends I don’t exist or looks at me like he’s already stripped me bare.

Alexei’s in the kitchen making coffee with his back to me. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt that’s stretched across muscle and moving like he knows I’m watching.

Seventy-two hours, and I’ve memorized his every line—the flex of his shoulders and the way his forearms tighten when he grips the counter.

I hate that I notice.

I hate it even more that I can’t stop.

“Morning.” I step into the kitchen before I can talk myself out of it.

“Morning.” He doesn’t turn or even glance at me. He just keeps moving like I don’t exist.

It’s been like this since the moment we got here.

By day, he keeps a perfect professional distance that makes me want to throw something.

By night, when he thinks I’m asleep, I feel his stare through the half-open door. Those blue-gray eyes track my every movement until my skin burns.

I pour coffee to keep my hands busy and lean against the counter across from him. “Any update on the threats?”

“Nothing solid yet.”

“So, I’m just… stuck.”

“You’re safe here.” His voice doesn’t rise or fall. “That’s all that matters.”

“What matters is my degree. My research. My life. The one you’ve put on hold because someone took a picture.”

He finally looks at me. The hunger in his eyes steals my breath, but his voice stays calm. “Your life won’t mean much if you’re dead.”

“Little dramatic, don’t you think?” I shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

He sips his coffee and shrugs once, like the conversation is over.

I slam my mug down hard enough to spill coffee over the rim.

“I have a presentation next week. And an advisor meeting. And research that can’t happen from a prison cell. You can’t keep me locked up here.”