Page 81 of 10 Days to Ruin

ARIEL

My list ofDo Not Do’sis growing worryingly long.

Do not dream of Sasha Ozerov.

Do not think of Sasha Ozerov.

For God’s sake, do not even CONSIDER fantasizing about Sasha Ozerov. You’ll summon him like Beetlejuice.

It’s a good list. Very comprehensive.

Unfortunately, it’s also useless.

Because all morning, ever since we tumbled down the mountain in the light of dawn and Sasha took me back to my apartment so I could hurriedly shower the cave dirt out of my hair and throw on a work outfit, thinking and dreaming and fantasizing about Sasha Ozerov is all I can do.

I stab at my laptop keys hard enough to crack the spacebar.Focus, Ari. Work. Words. Journalism.But all my brain is good for are ten-thousand word articles onthe way his scar glowed ivory in the firelight, the broken-glass rasp of his voice saying “Sleep,ptichka.”

I curse out loud as coffee sloshes over my “World’s Okayest Reporter” mug. John’s latest assignment—about a corgi who can skateboard—mocks me from the screen. My cursor blinks accusingly where I’ve typed “Sasha” instead of “Sparkie.”

If Sparkie had been on that mountain this morning, he’d understand.

The descent was a blur of Sasha’s grip steadying my waist, lifting me over tree roots, dawn breaking like an egg yolk over his stubbled jaw. He’d driven me home in silence, his Henley still draped over my shoulders. I’d wanted to fling it into the Hudson. Instead, it’s now fermenting in my hamper, probably whispering treasonous things like,Maybe some monsters have soft edges.

Gina comes up beside me, snapping her gum. “You got beef with that corgi or something? You’re staring at the screen like you’re trying to put a hex on him.”

“I’m—”

“Shut up!”

I blink at her. “Uh… pardon?”

“SOS,” she hisses, jerking her chin toward the elevators. “Six o’clock. Code Red.”

I turn slowly. I know what I’m going to see before I see it, but somehow, that does absolutely nothing to dampen the shock.

He’s here.

Sasha Ozerov stands in the doorway of our grimy office, looking wildly out of place in a tailored charcoal suit, his scarred hands tucked casually in his pockets.

Every head in the room swivels toward him—editors pause mid-sip, interns drop highlighters, the sports guy chokes on his breakfast burrito.

What is he doing here?I mouth at Gina, panic rising.

She shrugs, eyes wide. “Dude’s like a STD—shows up uninvited and ruins your week.”

My first hope is that I can burrow beneath my desk like a meerkat and he’ll leave me alone. But when I see motion in Editor John’s office and realize just how bad it would be if Sasha nonchalantly asked my boss where he could find me, I bolt up and practically sprint towards him.

“You—!” I jab a finger at Sasha, then at the fire escape. “Out.Now.”

He raises an eyebrow, scanning the yellowed press clippings on the walls and the half-dead ficus by the copier. “Charming place you’ve got here. I?—”

“Not. Another. Word.”

I drag him by the elbow out onto the little fire escape landing. I’m mad, flushed, terrified, a million emotions all at once.

I whirl on him the door clangs shut. “Do you have any idea what happens when thepakhanof the Ozerov Bratva waltzes into anewspaper office?”

“They offer me coffee?” He leans against the concrete wall, all lazy, predatory confidence. “It was terrible, by the way. Tasted like motor oil.”

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