I’m tearing myself apart imagining some version of Mikhail sitting on his floor crafting a collage of my face when the man himself walks into my room, shoulders back, hands in his pockets.
I promptly lunge for the lamp next to my bed and hurl it at him.
It shatters against the wall, a good three feet away from his face.
“You missed,” he says flatly.
I stomp around the bed, prepared to grab the second bedside lamp and make sure I absolutely don’t miss this time. But Mikhail finally decides it’s time to stop me.
He grabs my arm and jerks me back. “No more throwing lamps.”
“Of course you’d say that. You’re the one who deserves to have a lamp thrown at his face.” I try to twist out of his hold, but his fingers are like iron around my wrist. “Let me go!”
He pulls me closer, pinning me be
