“Shut up, you're getting on my nerves.”

In the expansive kitchen, muted by the warm light of bulbs and the dim glow of St. Petersburg's night lights, Ptitsa's sharp, almost barking voice shatters the silence. His amber eyes roam over you, and then he flashes a grin so wicked it sends a shiver down your spine. You raise a perfectly groomed eyebrow in silent inquiry, your fingers irritably tapping on the laptop, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

“Your face has subtitles, bitch. Shut up, you think too loudly and distract me,” he mutters nonchalantly, starting to twirl a long red lock of hair around his finger. His eyes never leave yours, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Are you trying to brag to me that you pick up a young guy and shag with him?”

He shrugs, letting go of the lock of hair. Ptitsa abruptly rises from the small sofa by the panoramic window. “Are you trying to make me jealous? That might work if it were the crybaby Sergei standing in front of you, I'm sorry,” he leans closer, his breath brushing your cheek as he closes the laptop with a loud bang, forcing you flinch again, “but here I am, birdie.”

Liar.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips as his hands grasp your waist, lifting you effortlessly and settling you down on the bar counter, so lightly as if you weigh nothing. His leg slides brazenly between your ankles, forcing your dainty fingers to curl around his shoulders for balance.

Your gaze sweeps over his features, noting the way his jaw tightens in frustration. The vulnerability in his eyes is almost imperceptible, but you catch it, a slight glimmer he tries so hard to hide. His pride will not let him talk outright; he would rather bite his tongue off.

“Despise you. I shan't be jealous of you.”

Oh yes? Only now his face is buried deep in your neck, and his hands greedily squeeze your waist, as if he tries to imprint his presence on you. He presses his lips to your skin, a fleeting, ghostly touch.

His hands continue to hold you tightly, as if afraid that letting go means losing you forever.