Lovecraft

Chapter 4: Lies and Coffee

Mila stumbled backward, her hip slamming into the doorframe. The photographs fluttered from her hand, scattering on the floor like dead leaves. Kael didn't move. He just watched her, his head still on the pillow, his eyes tracking her every flinch.

"You," she breathed. "You're him. You're the one who's been—"

"If I were the one," he cut her off, his voice calm, "you'd be dead. Not sleeping on my couch."

He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The sheet fell away, and she saw the full map of his ruined torso. It was worse in the daylight. She forced herself to look at his face.

"Then who are you? Why do you have pictures of me?"

He reached for a t-shirt draped over a chair, pulled it on, and stood. He moved past her into the hallway, completely unconcerned by her presence. "Kitchen. Coffee. You look like you need it."

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command. And despite every instinct screaming at her to run, her legs followed him.

The kitchen was all stainless steel and dark stone. Cold. Impersonal. Like him. He moved with an economy of motion, grinding beans, filling a kettle. He didn't look at her.

"The man following you," he said finally. "His name is Dmitri Volkov. He's a collector."

"Of what?" Mila whispered.

Kael turned, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. The movement stretched the fabric of his shirt, and she could see the outline of the scars beneath.

"Of women. Specifically, beautiful, broken women he can own. He finds them. Courts them. Destroys them. And when he's bored, he disposes of them." His eyes held hers. "Your friend. The one he killed last night. She was his latest project. Until she tried to run."

Mila felt the world tilt. "How do you know about Anna?"

The kettle boiled. He turned to make the coffee, his back to her. "Because I was hired to watch you."

The words hung in the air like smoke. He placed a steaming mug on the island in front of her. His expression was unreadable.

"By who?"

He met her gaze. "Him. Volkov. He hired me to track you, learn your routines, find your weaknesses. I was supposed to deliver a full report yesterday."

Mila's blood roared in her ears. She was standing in the kitchen of the man sent to deliver her to a monster. She looked at the knife block on the counter. Could she reach it before he moved?

"He changed his mind," Kael continued, as if discussing the weather. "He got impatient. He decided to take you himself last night. Anna was just… collateral damage. A message."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He was quiet for a long moment. He picked up his own mug, took a sip, and stared out the window at the grey morning sky.

"Because I don't work for men who kill women in alleys," he said quietly. "It's bad for business."

It was such a cold, pragmatic answer that she almost believed it. Almost.

"So what now?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "You let me go? Forget you saw me?"

He turned back to her, and that flicker of something was back in his eyes. The crack in the ice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her phone. He slid it across the island to her.

"Now, you have a choice. You walk out that door, and you're dead by nightfall. Volkov has eyes everywhere. Or…" He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second. A heartbeat of a moment that made her stomach clench. "You stay. And I teach you how to fight back."

Mila stared at him. The killer offering her a deal. The devil with the frozen eyes and the scarred body.

"Why would you help me?" she whispered.

He didn't answer. He just looked at her, and in that look was something dangerous. Something that had nothing to do with guns or dossiers.

"Drink your coffee," he said. "It's getting cold."