Tone
I sat curled into the corner of the worn couch, bare legs tucked beneath me, drowning in a shirt that didn’t belong to me and a silence that didn’t feel suffocating.
Sitting there with Archie Popovich felt somewhat… easy. It was surprising, considering how much time I’d spent hating the man.
Archie sat opposite me, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, the other wrapped loosely around a glass that he’d refilled more times than I’d kept track of.
I was amazed at his ability to hold his liquor, because he was nowhere near drunk.
He didn’t look at me constantly—I don’t think he was that kind of man—but every time he did, it felt deliberate.
Measured. Like he was filing something away for later.
“I heard you,” I said, breaking the quiet before it settled too deep. My voice came out lower than I intended. “At the villa. When you told Atlas and Raze who you really are.”
He glanced down, like the floor had suddenly earned his attention, a smile tugging at his mouth that he didn’t quite manage to hide.
I’d just handed it to him—made it obvious I’d been listening in where I shouldn’t have been. And the bastard was enjoying it far more than he should.
“Ah.” He leaned back, unbothered, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass. “So that’s what this is.”
My brow lifted. “What’s what?”
“This,” he said, gesturing lazily between us, though his eyes didn’t move from mine. “You… playing nice.”
Heat pricked at the back of my neck. I ignored it.
“Nice?”
“Aha. Nice.” His gaze slid over me—unhurried, deliberate. Taking his time memorizing something he had no intention of forgetting.
I held his stare, even as something in my chest tightened.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said.
“Too late for that.” He tipped his glass slightly, not quite a toast, not quite a challenge. “Fancy yourself a prince now, do you?”
I let out a quiet breath, close enough to a laugh that it could pass.
“You might be a prince,” I said, meeting his gaze again, holding it there. “But I still have better taste in company.”
That earned me a low, quiet chuckle that settled into the room and stayed there. It did something strange to my chest that I couldn’t ignore.
“I don’t get it,” I said, head tilting as I looked at him. “Why you’re so set on slumming it with us.”
His gaze lifted, locking onto mine—and the air shifted.
“Contrary to popular belief,” he said, quieter now, something rough edging his voice, “I like it here.”
There was no humor or deflection in his voice.
“Your family…” His gaze flickered, like he was weighing just how much to give away. “That kind of loyalty—you don’t find it easily.”
My chest tightened.
“Certainly not,” he added, almost under his breath, “where I come from.”
I watched him a beat too long, picking him apart—not the version people whispered about, not the threat they made him out to be. Just the man. One who didn’t quite fit anywhere. I knew that shape too well.
“Careful,” I said lightly, leaning back, breaking the tension before it settled. “You’re starting to sound sentimental.”
His mouth curved, but it didn’t touch his eyes.
“Don’t tell anyone and I’ll try not to make it a habit.”
I reached for my drink, glancing at him over the rim. “I don’t know… I think Raze would be fascinated to hear you’ve got a heart in there… somewhere.”
I held his gaze—and felt it immediately. That shift.
My pulse stumbled, sharp and off-beat, before kicking harder. Annoying. Unwanted.
I adjusted without thinking, drawing my legs in, tucking them beneath me like it might anchor something that had already started to slip. His shirt slid against my skin as I moved, loose on one shoulder—and I caught it.
The flicker of his gaze. Down. Back up. Too quick to call out. Too deliberate to ignore. There it was. That thing. It had been sitting between us all night—quiet, patient, waiting for one of us to acknowledge it. Neither of us had. Until now.
“Careful,” I said softly, meeting his eyes again. “You keep looking at me like that, people might start talking.”
His expression didn’t shift. If anything, it sharpened.
“And what would they say?”
The room tightened around us. Smaller. Closer. I felt it in my throat when I swallowed.
Archie didn’t do anything by accident. Not a glance. Not a breath. He leaned forward, slow, forearms braced against his knees, closing the distance without touching me.
“Tell me,” he murmured.
Every instinct told me to look away. I didn’t.
“Like you want me,” I said quietly.
The words didn’t fall—they settled. Heavy. Final.
Something in his eyes darkened. Immediate. Unhidden.
“And you,” he replied, his voice lower now. Rougher. “You might not like how I answer that.”
My breath hitched—barely there, but enough.
“And how would you answer?”
The second it left my mouth, I knew. It wasn’t a question so much as a suggestion. An invitation.
Something in him shifted. He moved without hesitation.
The couch dipped beside me, worn fabric shifting under his weight as he closed the space that had been between us all night. Thin. Fragile.
Gone. Completely.
Heat pressed into my side, bleeding through the thin cotton of his shirt wrapped around me. Close enough that I felt it with every breath. Close enough that breathing stopped being automatic.
The air thickened. Tighter.
I caught the scent of him—clean soap, sharp—but beneath it, something darker lingered. Something that didn’t wash off. Didn’t fade.
A reminder. Of what he was. Of what we were standing in.
My heart kicked harder, too fast to ignore, but I didn’t move.
I didn’t give him anything, but I felt it.
Every inch of space between us burned like it mattered.
His arm stretched along the back of the couch behind me, not touching—close enough that it might as well have been.
If I leaned back, I’d feel him. If I turned my head, I’d brush him.
Intentional. Everything about him was intentional.
My fingers curled against my thigh, grounding myself as his presence pressed in from every angle without ever quite closing that last gap.
It was worse like this. The almost. The not quite yet.
I turned my head, slow, meeting his gaze. Too close.
“You always do this?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
“Do what?”
“Step into someone’s space like it already belongs to you.”
Something dark flickered in his eyes. Controlled. Enjoyed.
“Only when I need to make a point.”
My lips parted—just slightly. And his gaze dropped to them like he’d been waiting for it.
My pulse tripped again. Faster this time.
“And have you?” I asked, softer now. “Made your point?”
He didn’t answer straight away. Just watched me. Like he was deciding something. Or letting it happen.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I think I have.”
I leaned in. Just enough to test the pressure. A line drawn in inches.
“Maybe you’re not as dangerous as you think, Archie Popovich.”
That did it. Something tightened in him—sharp, immediate, barely held in check. He closed the last inch between us. Heat wrapped around me, his hand shifting behind me—closer now, no hesitation left in it.
My breath caught. Everything in me went still. Waiting.
The sharp shrill of his phone cutting through the air broke the moment.
His hand dropped from behind me—gone in an instant, like the moment had never happened. A quiet curse slipped under his breath as he reached for the phone, every line of him snapping back into the man he was. Colder. Harder. Untouchable.
I watched it happen.
The shift in his jaw. The way his shoulders squared. The way whatever had been in his eyes vanished behind something controlled—and dangerous.
He answered. Listened. Said nothing at first.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice flat. Controlled in a way that set something uneasy loose in my chest. “Send it through.”
The call ended. Silence followed—thick, pressing in from all sides.
He looked at me. And just like that, it was gone. Whatever had been building between us—burning, tightening, pulling—it disappeared like it had never existed.
“The men weren’t random,” he said.
My stomach dropped before he finished.
“They’re Spanish.”
A beat.
“And they work for Michalo Machado.”
The name sat like a boulder between us. It knocked the air clean out of my lungs.
Spain. Machado. I knew exactly who he was.
The dinners I refused. The gifts I never accepted. Flowers that kept coming anyway—more expensive, more insistent, like no wasn’t a word he recognized.
He hadn’t courted. He’d circled. Closing in. Watching. Waiting. And when I didn’t give him what he wanted, he didn’t stop. He tightened. Until leaving had been the only option left.
Archie was still watching me. Taking in every shift. Every crack I didn’t mean to show.
“I take it you know him,” he said quietly.
Not a question.
I swallowed, fingers tightening in the fabric at my thighs.
“Yes.”
The word came out thin. It didn’t sound like my voice.
“I know exactly who he is.”