Page 116 of Cruel Demands

His gaze drops immediately to the knife. I follow it. “This is for vegetables,” I say.

“And it would do a poor job of that.”

“I could still stick you with it.”

“Stick me, huh?” A smile leaks across his face like he can’t contain it, and he quickly regains control of it. “I hope you will not. If you hold it that way, you will cut yourself too.” I look at my hand. “And boom, in that one second, I would have taken it from you. You are not a very good killer, Taylor. Leave that stuff to me.”

“You are making a very poor argument for not being terrifying.”

“I am not arguing that I am not terrifying, but I should not terrify you.”

My nose wrinkles, and a laugh escapes me like a surprised bark. “Do you even hear yourself?” I start to close the door.

He puts one gloved hand against it. The chain pulls tight. My pulse jumps. “Move your hand.”

“Let me in.”

“No.”

“I brought something.”

“I don’t care.”

He lifts the paper bag slightly. Something inside crinkles. My gaze betrays me. Mikhail notices with a satisfied smirk that lifts the scar on his cheek.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Open the door.”

“You could have a gun in there.”

“I do not need a grocery bag to hide a gun.”

I hate that it’s a good argument.

He reaches into the bag and removes a familiar silver packet. Fritos. He holds the bag open and tips it forward toward me to show that it is stuffed to the brim with them. Beneath the packets are four cans of root beer, the same kind Anya found at an import shop near the university months ago. Not a Russian approximation. The actual thing.

I look from the cans to him. “How did you know about the drinks?”

“You told me.”

I stare at him. “You remembered.”

“Yes.” The answer is too simple.

I slide the chain free. Mikhail opens the door slowly, watching the knife until I set it on the table. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The apartment becomes smaller around him. He looks absurd here. Too controlled, too expensive, too broad for the narrow entryway and mismatched furniture.

His gaze travels over everything. The peeling paint near the window. The radiator that clicks without producing enough heat. The old lock.

I fold my arms. “Do not inspect my apartment.”

“I am looking.”

“You’re inspecting,” I say again.

He places the bag on the table. I take out the Fritos and the root beer, turning one of the cans over in my hand before putting them into the fridge. When I shut the door, I look back at him. “You know,” I say, “the Fritos were one thing. This is starting to feel like bribery.”

“It is not bribery.”