In others, it irritated her.
Bitch was meant to be a slur—she just fucking owned it now. She would rather be seen as a bitch by people than easy prey. If being a bitch meant people stayed far away from her at all times, then that was perfectly fine with her.
Viktoria made quick work of going through the aisles and grabbing enough items to keep her fed for at least a month. That meant less time she would have to spend coming back here over the next thirty days.
Winning.
Other than a worker who asked if she needed any help—a guy, actually—while she’d surveyed boxes of cereal, no one else tried to approach her. No one got close enough to make her anxiety pick up a notch.
She was just heading for the checkout, a feat that would probably mean she would need to have chitchat with the idiot running the register, when something off to her left caught her eye. She came to a stop in the middle of the aisle and stared at the man twenty feet away as he surveyed a whole row of Hallmark cards.
The first thing she thought?
He looks like he has no idea what he’s doing.
It kind of shocked her that her initial reaction was not to keep walking; to pretend like she hadn’t seen Pavel at all, and go about her day. It wasn’t like on any other day she would stop to admire some strange man alone in a grocery aisle.
Oh, the nerves were present. The anxiety thrummed deep and the fear teased at her senses. Still, she watched him.
He put one card back, and then picked another out from the top row. Flipping it over, he read something on the back, and his brow dipped in the cutest way. The week before, when she had done his tattoos, he’d been wearing black jeans that molded to his ass and thighs, a plain black tee, and a leather jacket. He had the same wardrobe today, except the tee was white.
She wondered why in the hell he was here—she knew about the elusive Zhatka. Reaper, they called him. Sure, she hadn’t known his face, and that he was the one they talked about when the name Zhatka passed their lips. But she’d heard about him. She’d heard the whispers; the ones that said he was owned by the Boykovs and hadn’t left the Compound’s property in years.
She knew he was dangerous.
She heard those whispers, too.
Was it all true?
If it was, the last thing she should want to do was head down the aisle and ask him if he needed help because he looked like he had never seen a greeting card before in his life. Another war started in her head—leave or go, basically. She had just decided to keep going when all at once, Pav lifted his head and looked her way. His gaze landed on her, and she swore there wasn’t even a hint of surprise when he looked at her.
Like he knew.
She’d been there the whole time.
Well, there goes leaving.
She could leave, actually. She could go without saying hello. She never cared before if someone thought she was a bitch because she looked them right in the face one second, and then walked away from them without any kind of acknowledgment in the next.
Still, her legs worked on their own accord. Before she knew what was happening, she had turned her cart and headed down the aisle toward Pav. Something akin to a smile curved the edges of his lips, but she couldn’t be sure if that’s truly what it was. It looked slightly darker, and far sexier than just a smile. She didn’t know if he meant for it to come across like that, but it did.
That was even more problematic for her.
This man terrified her.
She didn’t need him turning her on, too.
Yep, she was a mess.
“Viktoria,” he greeted quietly.
Now that she thought about it, his voice was kind of like his smile, too. Dark and husky. Yet, quiet and low at the same time. In all their conversations so far, she hadn’t once heard him raise his tone and he spoke just below a normal level when he did talk.
Strange …
And she liked it.
“Pavel,” she returned, “you look a little lost.”
He frowned and turned back to the card in his hand. “This is not suitable for a … generic congratulations, is it?”
Pav held out the card for her to look at, and she did all she could do not to grin or God forbid, laugh at him. He seemed dead serious, and that just proved to her in a way that some of the whispers about him were probably true.
He hadn’t been out of the Compound very much.
How sad was that?
“Unless you’re congratulating them for the death of a pet, then no,” she replied.
Pav blinked, and quickly put the card back to the row. “Oh. I just picked ones that looked nice. I didn’t read the insides.”
“Did you read the words on the outside?”
He shrugged. “They’re platitudes. They don’t actually say anything, do they? Generic. Boring. Meaningless. They’ll be tossed in the garbage before the night is out, I assume. That’s what I would do with them if someone ever thought to buy me a card to congratulate me on something that was obvious.”
She had no idea what to say to that.
He wasn’t wrong, though.
“What is the card for?” she asked.
Pav hummed under his breath and eyed her from the side. “A party to celebrate something beautiful.”
“So, you really do need a generic card?”
“I suppose.”
It took her all of three seconds to find a generic card with the usual congratulations stamped on the front, and the usual platitudes on the inside.
