16: It's better than lingerie

Tension burned between us, his warning still hanging in the air. I held my breath.

But instead of lunging, instead of making good on his words, Marek leaned back and reached for his phone. His thumb flicked lazily across the screen, like nothing had happened.

“Pizza. Pepperoni. Extra cheese. And one with ham and mushrooms.” His Polish accent roughened the words as he spoke quickly into the phone, then hung up without asking me what I wanted. He looked at me, smirking. “You’ll eat what I eat. Simpler that way.”

I sat stiff on the couch, arms wrapped around myself, pulse refusing to calm. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” he agreed easily, like it didn’t bother him at all. His ice-blue eyes lingered on me, then sharpened – not with hunger, but with something more like curiosity. “But better insane with pizza than sane with Wiktor – or Santiago, no?”

I flinched at Santiago’s name. Marek noticed. His mouth twisted into something like a smirk, but there was no victory in it. Only bitterness.

The silence stretched between us, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint vibration of traffic beyond the walls. I shivered, hugging myself, pulling at the short sleeves of my uniform – fabric too thin to keep me warm. I’d been too nervous, too terrified to notice until now how cold I was. Marek’s apartment wasn’t exactly the warmest place.

“You’re shivering, little lamb.” His voice low, his gaze sweeping hungrily over my uniform. His eyes darkened. Then, with a sudden movement, he stood and disappeared into the other room. I stiffened, pulse stuttering, wondering if I had time to bolt for the door. But then he returned with something in his hand, interrupting my thoughts. He tossed it at me. Soft fabric landed in my lap.

“Here,” he said, cold and casual. “Change. That uniform – “, his gaze swept over me once more, lingering far too long, starving, “– looks too good on you.” The way he said it made me feel naked, exposed. So, I grabbed the fabric, rose too quickly, and scurried out toward the hall, looking for the bathroom, caught between two choices.

“Left,” he called casually before I could turn to ask. I followed his direction and pushed the door open.

Marek’s bathroom wasn’t polished or luxurious. It was raw, stripped down to the essentials.

The tiles were black slate, some cracked, patched over with darker grout. The sink, heavy porcelain, was chipped at one corner, and the mirror above it scratched and flecked with old water stains. A single light bulb hung overhead, humming faintly, it’s light yellow and vague.

But it wasn’t filthy. No clutter of half-used bottles or mold creeping in the corners. No, only the bare minimum, lined up neatly: a steel razor, worn but clean; a single bottle of cheap cologne, half-empty; a dark bar of soap resting in a metal dish.

The shower dominated the far wall, a glass pane streaked with water spots.

The fabric in my hand was soft, smelling faintly of him – smoke, leather, and danger.

An oversized black T-shirt, big enough to swallow my body whole.

It wasn’t delicate or new. But it was his.

I peeled off my maid’s uniform with trembling hands, tossing the thin fabric over the edge of the sink. The shirt fell over me in one soft, heavy motion, brushing against my bare thighs, the hem stopping slightly above my knees. But I still felt exposed. Wearing his T-shirt felt intimate. Claimed.

What was I doing here? Was he just toying with me before handing me over to Wiktor – or was he really having second thoughts about what to do with me? I caught sight of myself in the scratched mirror, running fingers through my hair, correcting lashes. Maybe I could use that to my advantage, get him to change his mind – make him want to keep me instead. Anything to stay out of Wiktor’s claws.

I dropped my shoes and socks as well, leaning into the strange intimacy of wearing his shirt. My bare feet sank into the rug runner in the hall as I made my way back to the living room. To him.

I tugged nervously at the hem of the oversized shirt. It was ridiculous how exposed I felt – despite being more covered than in my uniform.

The floor creaked softly, giving away my arrival. Marek was slouched on the couch, one arm sprawled along the backrest, cigarette dangling between two fingers. He didn’t move right away. His eyes found me, and the smirk spread slow and dangerous, illuminating his scarred face.

“Kurva…” he muttered under his breath, the words more like a prayer than a curse. He dragged his eyes down the shirt, lingering shamelessly on my bare thighs before flicking back up to my face.

I shifted on my feet, crossing my arms over my chest as if that would shield me from his stare.

“It’s just a shirt.”

His grin widened. “On me, yes. On you…” He whistled low, shaking his head like I’d done something indecent just by breathing. “On you it’s better than lingerie.”

Heat flared in my cheeks. I tilted my head down, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and leaned back, watching me with dark, hungry eyes.

“Sit,” he said with a casual tone, patting his thigh.

My pulse stuttered in my throat.

His smile was devastating.

“Let me keep you warm.”