Page 56 of Sexting the Pakhan

“No.”

At least he doesn’t lie.

I look away first, because looking at him is becoming a problem. He’s still standing by the door, tall and broad and too controlled, his shirt open at the throat, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. There’s a faint bruise across one knuckle. I hate that I notice. I hate that part of me wants to touch it.

“I’ll sleep in the chair,” he says.

My eyes go to the chair near the window. It looks uncomfortable for a man his size. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s fine.”

“You own this entire house.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to sleep in a chair in your own bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looks at me like the answer is obvious. “Because you’re in the bed.”

Something strange happens in my chest. Not softness. Not exactly. Something worse, because I don’t know what to do with it.

I pull his coat tighter around myself. “I didn’t ask for the bed.”

“You got it anyway.”

“That is very mafia of you.”

His mouth moves. Almost a smile. Almost.

I hate him for having a mouth like that.

Then I shiver. It’s small, but he sees it.

“You’re cold,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wet from the balcony.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Zoya.”

I close my eyes for half a second. “Do you always say people’s names like a threat?”

“Only when they lie badly.”

I open my eyes and glare at him.

He doesn’t react. He just crosses to a closet, opens a drawer, and takes out a folded black shirt. He holds it out to me. “Change.”

I stare at the shirt. Then at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes are damp.”