Before Seraphina could fire back another insult, before she could even form words, Konstantin Ivanov stepped past her like he owned the air inside the house. His heavy boots hit the wooden floor with finality—measured, assured, and completely unapologetic.
She blinked at his back, stunned.
He didn't even look at her.
Detective Ellie Grant muttered a quick, "Good luck," then disappeared down the steps before Seraphina could grab her by the collar and drag her back in.
What the hell just happened?
She stood frozen in the open doorway for a beat too long, the cold breeze whispering against the back of her neck. Her hands itched to throw something. Her mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again in disbelief.
With a sigh, she pushed the door shut behind her.
The lock clicked softly, and now it was official: she was alone in her house with a man she didn't know, didn't invite, and already wanted to kill.
She turned around slowly—and found him standing in the middle of her living room, looking around like he was cataloging her life in bullet points.
He hadn't taken off his coat. Or his boots. Or the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He just stood there like an apex predator thrown into someone else's den and instantly deciding he was the one in charge.
His sharp gaze roamed over the walls, the bookshelves, the mismatched cushions on the couch, the old lamp she still hadn't replaced. Then he closed his eyes and—inhaled.
Deeply.
"Smells like cats and desperation."
Seraphina's mouth fell open.
Her hands went to her hips automatically. "I—Excuse me?!"
He opened his eyes and finally looked at her. Cool. Flat. Dismissive. His expression didn't even flicker with amusement. Just pure, calculated indifference.
Yes, she had three cats. Archie, Wren, and Poe. They were entitled, dramatic, and possibly plotting to kill her in her sleep, but they were hers. And yes, maybe she occasionally forgot to feed them until they screamed at her, but they were fat and alive. So what if her house had a little bit of cat smell? This was a home, not a sterile bachelor penthouse.
"You're unbelievable," she muttered.
"And yet, very real." He set the duffel bag down beside the antique coffee table with a heavy thud. "Where's my room?"
That snapped her out of it.
"I—no—what? You're not staying here," she said, stepping in front of him. "This is my house. My sanctuary. You don't just walk in and start sniffing the place like a bloodhound and throwing around insults."
He looked down at her—because of course he was tall enough that even her most confident posture left her at a disadvantage—and tilted his head slightly.
"The detective said I was staying here. So I am. I don't waste time repeating conversations already settled."
"Oh, so you're a dictator as well as a fed?" she snapped.
"If I were a dictator, you'd already be in a cage."
Her stomach clenched. Not from fear. Not exactly. It was the way he said it—deadpan, low, with that slight Russian undertone that made everything sound vaguely threatening. Like a promise disguised as a warning.
She swallowed hard, stepping back before she did something regrettable, like throw the teapot at his head.
"Upstairs. Left wing. Guest room is at the end of the hall," she bit out. "Don't touch anything. Don't breathe too loudly. Don't make yourself comfortable."
He didn't thank her. Didn't nod. Just turned and started walking like she hadn't spoken at all.
Seraphina followed him up the stairs, resisting the urge to shove him off the landing. The house creaked under his weight—either from age or offense. She couldn't tell.
She noticed the way his eyes scanned everything. Every step, every wall, every picture. Not like a man appreciating his surroundings—but like a soldier memorizing a battlefield.
He stopped just before the guest room door.
"This lock is weak," he said, flicking the knob with one finger.
"Great. Add it to the Yelp review I didn't ask for."
He ignored her again and opened the door.
It was a decent room—neutral grey walls, large windows, a queen bed with navy linens, and a small desk that used to belong to her grandfather. She hadn't touched much of it since her grandmother vanished. She hadn't expected anyone else to stay in that room again.
Now a stranger with cold eyes and blood on his résumé was moving in like he belonged.
He stepped inside, dropped the duffel bag with a thud, and turned back to her.
"I'll install cameras tomorrow."
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"Security cameras. Perimeter first. Then interior. Some blind spots. Basement's vulnerable."
She stared at him, horrified. "You're not installing anything inside my house."
"Non-negotiable."
"I didn't agree to this."
"Your grandmother did," he said simply.
That shut her up.
Her chest tightened as if he'd sucker-punched her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, your grandmother's investigation was more serious than you know. Her case—what she uncovered—it's why I'm here. The agency signed off on this before her disappearance. She agreed to protection for herself... and for you."
Seraphina staggered back a step. The hallway felt too narrow suddenly. The walls too close.
"No," she whispered. "She never told me anything."
"She couldn't. She was being watched."
The words settled over her like ash. Heavy. Dark. Final.
He stepped back into the hallway, brushing past her. "Get some sleep, Miss Calder. I'll be making rounds."
And just like that, he was gone. Silent footsteps vanishing into the shadows.
Seraphina stood outside the guest room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, heart thudding like it had heard something her mind hadn't processed yet.
She didn't like this.
Didn't trust him.
Didn't believe for one second that this man would ever put her before whatever assignment he was truly here for.
But most of all—she didn't like the small, traitorous part of her that felt safer with him here.
Seraphina took the stairs back up to her bedroom with deliberate steps, each one heavier than the last, as if the weight of everything that had happened in the last hour was being deposited in her bones.
The house felt colder now. Or maybe it was just her.
Her fingers trailed absently along the banister, feeling the familiar grooves in the wood her grandmother used to polish until it gleamed. She'd inherited this home, but at the moment, it felt like something had been stolen. Not in a literal sense—yet—but in the sense of space, of sovereignty. Of peace.
A stranger now slept four doors down.
Not just any stranger. A six-foot-something Russian fed with enough tension in his shoulders to make the floorboards creak. She hadn't missed the faint bulge of a weapon beneath his jacket either. Everything about him screamed danger—contained, like a razor tucked in silk.
He looked like the kind of man who could slit someone's throat and then sip chamomile tea while listening to Chopin.
Which, unfortunately, sounded like her exact type. But that was a personal problem.
She reached her bedroom and closed the door quietly behind her, locking it even though she knew it wouldn't matter. If Konstantin Ivanov wanted in, a wooden lock wouldn't stop him. She wasn't stupid.
She just wasn't ready to admit she felt safer with him here.
The room was dark except for the warm pool of light cast by her bedside lamp. The storm outside had softened into a light drizzle, just enough to drum softly against the glass. The shadows on the walls danced lazily as she moved through the room, peeling off her cardigan and discarding it over the edge of the bed.
She sat for a long moment, staring at the glowing screen of her locked phone on the nightstand. No missed calls. No new messages.
No updates about her grandmother.
She climbed under the covers and stared at the ceiling. Tried to breathe. Tried to think.
Just one week. Maybe less.
One week of ignoring him. Avoiding him. Pretending her home hadn't been invaded by a fed with the emotional range of a vodka bottle.
She turned to her side and closed her eyes.
Sleep didn't come easy. It never had. But that night, it came in fragments—patchy, restless, broken by the soft creaks and distant movement in the house. At one point she swore she heard a floorboard outside her room shift—but when she cracked open the door, there was nothing there. Just the quiet sigh of the house and the hum of her anxiety.
By the time morning finally broke through the fogged windows, she felt like she hadn't slept at all.
Still, she forced herself out of bed.
---
She padded down the hallway barefoot, hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing her usual morning attire: an oversized sweatshirt that reached mid-thigh and socks that didn't match. She rubbed her eyes and muttered curses under her breath as she descended the stairs.
Coffee. That was the goal.
Maybe toast.
Definitely avoiding the Russian bear in the guest room.
She turned into the kitchen—and stopped dead in her tracks.
There he was.
Standing at the stove like he belonged there. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that looked carved from stone and veins that curled like river maps. He held a spatula in one hand, flipping eggs in her cast iron skillet with the kind of care one might give to disarming a bomb.
He didn't look up. Didn't greet her. Just continued his morning routine in complete silence while the smell of cooked eggs filled the space.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
The man had commandeered her kitchen.
"Are you—are you making eggs?" she asked, voice still raspy from sleep.
He finally turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.
"Yes."
She walked further in, looking at the table. There was only one plate. One. On it were two sunny-side-up eggs and three strips of perfectly cooked bacon. Her bacon. Her eggs. Her pan.
"Is that... for me?" she asked, gesturing vaguely to the food.
He turned back to the stove, dropped the last egg onto the plate, and said with terrifying calm:
"No. You have hands. And legs. Use them."
Her jaw dropped.
"Excuse me?"
He walked to the counter, grabbed a fork—her favorite one, the gold-tipped one from the vintage set she never let anyone use—and carried the plate to the table like it was any other morning.
Seraphina just stood there, blinking.
"You made breakfast. In my house. With my food. And didn't think to make me anything?"
"I'm not your chef," he said without looking at her, already cutting into the eggs like this was a perfectly normal conversation.
"No, but you're certainly comfortable acting like you own the place."
He didn't respond.
She narrowed her eyes. "You're not even supposed to be here."
"You're welcome to take that up with the federal agency who assigned me."
"You're lucky I don't have a gun."
He finally looked up again, expression as unreadable as stone.
"I do."
Their eyes locked across the table, the tension so thick it could be bottled and sold as a weapon. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Seraphina turned sharply on her heel and opened the fridge. She grabbed eggs. Bread. Slammed them on the counter. Opened a cabinet and yanked out another pan with enough force to rattle the shelves.
If he noticed her passive-aggressive movements, he didn't show it.
She cooked in silence. Eggs, toast, her own damn bacon. But the entire time, she could feel him watching her with those too-sharp eyes—like he was studying her, dissecting her without saying a single word.
The silence between them was loud.
When she finally sat across from him, she stabbed a piece of toast viciously.
"I want rules," she said.
Konstantin didn't look up. "Too late."
"Rules or I scream."
He met her eyes then, and there was something dangerous in his expression. Amused, maybe. Intrigued.
"You're more trouble than you look."
"And you're more annoying than you sound."
For a split second, the corner of his mouth curved.
Not quite a smile.
But close enough to feel like a win.