He wants me the same way I want him. Probably against his will.
More than that, he doesn’t want to send Dante away. I remember what Pyotr said the other night: No one is enjoying themselves right now.
Instead of arguing with him, I go for a gentler approach. I press my palm to his stubbled cheek. “You aren’t the same man you were back then, Mikhail.”
He stares down at me, unreadable and unrelenting.
“You’re different,” I continue. “You understand the risks and you’ve done everything to account for them.”
When he understands what I’m saying, he jerks away. “Don’t.”
He spins around and pushes through my bedroom door. I follow him across the hall. “Don’t what? Don’t tell you the truth?” I ask. “Don’t tell you that I trust you to keep us safe?”
“Don’t act like you understand anything.”
