The air was cold and smelled of oil and luxurious cars.

Roman stopped two feet from his car, his brows raised.

Klara leaned against the driver's door like she belonged there, arms crossed, red coat bright against the grey Sedan.

Her lips curled into something that almost looked like a smile.

Roman didn’t speak. He just looked at her with the kind of exhaustion that had turned into annoyance.

Klara’s smile faltered.

“What the hell are you doing here, Klara?” Roman asked, finally.

She didn’t answer at first, just kept her head down on the concrete as if it wanted to swallow her.

“I’m not going to repeat myself.” He...