“Get away from me! I can’t breathe!”
“Oh, I’m making you suffocate?” Isakov murmurs playfully.
“Yes! Your perfume stinks, okay?!”
“You’re worked up, Nya shka,” he says, using the nickname that drives me crazy just as much as “Curly.” “You’re so worked up you’re shaking all over. Look—your hands are all covered in goosebumps.”
“What do you want from me? What do you want?”
“You.”
He irritates me beyond measure! Last year, because of the sick game he plays with his friends, I broke my leg. Because Zakhar Isakov chose me as his victim. I hoped he’d already forgotten about me—but this year he won’t calm down until he gets what he’s so desperate for.