Chapter Eighteen
The house feels wrong the moment I step through the door.
It’s too quiet, too sharp. I can almost taste the tension in the air, like the whole place is holding its breath. I think about slipping upstairs without saying a word, but it doesn’t matter—he’s here. I can feel it.
Sure enough, Viktor’s pacing the living room like a predator in a cage, jacket tossed across the sofa, sleeves rolled high. His hair is mussed like he’s been dragging his hand through it for hours. When he looks up, his eyes pin me in place.
“You were gone too long.” His voice is low, dangerous.
I try to brush it off, even though my pulse stutters. “What, keeping a timer on me now?”
His jaw clenches. “Don’t joke. Something’s wrong. Tell me.”
He says it like a command, not a request. A niggle of
