Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Red
Lights twinkle against the darkness through the glass. I stand at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled to my elbows, adjusting the second cuff link with more precision than necessary. The metal clicks into place, and I check my watch.
Forty-eight minutes until they arrive.
Plenty of time.
Too much time.
The low hum of the wine fridge and the occasional tick of ice settling in the tray are the only sounds.
I've already set four places at the table.
And I like variables minimized before anything unpredictable walks through my door.
So my simple white plates and heavy linen napkins give me a moment of control.
Yet I'm not stupid. I know it's a farce.
Mikhail is coming for dinner.
The dread I've felt all day returns. I attempt to ignore it and pick up my phone. There are no new messages from Blue since her selfie at four-thirty.
I don't need to see it. The image is still burned behind my eyelids just like all the other photos she's ever sent me. This one has her chin tilted, several undone buttons that expose the delicate ridge of her collarbone, and her small knowing smirk.
It's an innocent photo if looked at first glance, but I know my Bluebird. It was sent for me, with subliminal messages written all over it. And she has no idea how close I came to canceling my last two appointments.
Another round of ice falls in the freezer, and the hairs on my neck rise.
"Get a grip," I scold myself, then add, "What is she thinking, letting Mikhail come here?"
Another round of bad thoughts rushes at me.
Every bone in my body knows this is a bad idea.
Blue's parents are a storm on the horizon, but Mikhail is the immediate threat.
He's the one variable I can't predict or contain.
He's the man who stormed Cloud's apartment and still hasn't whispered a word to Demi's or Blue's fathers.
Why?
Leverage?
Boredom?
Waiting for me to slip?
I exhale through my nose, counting to six, then do the same when I inhale. It steadies my pulse without dulling the edge.
Good. I need the edge tonight.
Stay on guard at all times.
Why am I putting myself in this position?
A loud bang ricochets across the room. My stomach tightens. I cross the living room and open the door.
Blue glows like she swallowed starlight. She lunges at me, tossing her arms around my neck. "Hey!"
I tug her close, my cock springing to life, kiss her, then retreat. I twirl my finger in the air and order, "Let me see you. Spin."
She beams and obeys. Black silk clings and drapes at the same time.
The neckline climbs high in front but plunges low in back, stopping just above her mole that I know by heart.
Her skirt hits mid-thigh, flaring slightly when she moves.
Strappy black heels make her legs look endless.
Her hair is loose, with waves spilling over one shoulder, and she painted her lips a deep berry.
She's sin wrapped in celebration.
My cock twitches. I mutter, "Jesus. You really are trying to kill me."
She wiggles her eyebrows, then launches herself at me again, tossing her arms around my neck, and pinning her mouth on mine like I'm a trophy she just won.
I catch her waist, lift her an inch off the floor on instinct, and kiss her back harder than before.
When I set her down, she's breathless, her eyes sparkling. She gushes, "My dress is the finale piece. The finale, Red. Mom put it in the grand finale."
"I know." I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "You told me. I'm proud of you."
She practically vibrates. "I still can't believe it. Interviews. Front row for you and Demi. Press photos. I—" She stops, suddenly serious, searching my face. "This is real, right? Tonight. A real double date. No hiding in corners or sneaking out at dawn."
This is exactly why I'm doing this.
For her.
I cup her cheek. "It's real."
Her smile returns, softer this time. She leans into my palm. "I've never done this before. Normal couple stuff. With you or anyone."
The tenderness hits like a blade between my ribs. I want to lock the door, cancel everything, and keep her here where the only variables are her heartbeat and mine. Instead, I kiss her forehead. "Then let's make it good."
Her phone pings. She glances down, a high-pitched squeal flies out of her, and she spins in a circle. "They're five minutes out! Demi says Mikhail's driving. Can you believe she's bringing him? And she's playing with fire with him and Nikolai? She better give me details later."
My jaw flexes. "Nicolai?"
Her expression lights further. "Yeah. Don't say I said anything."
"Said what?" I genuinely ask.
She claps thrice. "Oh! You're the best!" She twirls again, dress flaring, then stops in front of the mirror by the entry, smoothing her hands down her hips. "Do I look okay?"
I step behind her and drag my knuckles down her bare back. "You look dangerous."
She inhales sharply and holds her breath, catching my eye in the mirror. "Good dangerous?"
"The best kind." I move her hair off her shoulder and kiss her neck.
She shudders and grips my hand on her waist.
The doorbell buzzes, and we both freeze.
I nervously laugh. "I think our guests are here."
Blue spins, and her expression shifts to anxiety.
I ask, "What's wrong?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing. I just want tonight to be perfect."
"Don't worry, it will be," I say, even though I feel far from that outcome. I grab her hand, lead her toward the door, then open it.
Demi bursts in first, sequined jacket glittering under the hall light, arms wide. "Ready to party?" She throws herself at Blue, hugging her so hard that Blue's heels lift off the floor. Then she gushes, "Finale piece! My girl is a legend!"
"I know, right?" Blue squeals.
Mikhail steps inside in his custom-made charcoal suit, no tie, and the top button of his crisp white dress shirt undone. He scans the space in one sweep before his eyes settle last on Blue, lingering just long enough to make my pulse kick. He turns toward me and extends a hand. "Doctor."
I take it, and the micro-war begins without sound. His grip is firm, deliberate, and held a half second past polite. I fake niceties. "Mikhail."
The micro-war begins without sound.
Demi chatters mindlessly, dragging Blue toward the living room, oblivious or pretending to be. "Nice place, Red. I totally see you here, Blue!"
She glances back at me, eyes wide and happy.
I return her smile and close the door.
Mikhail lowers his voice. "We should talk privately."
Blue's head snaps toward us. "About what?"
Mikhail smiles, but there's no warmth. "Just a quick word with the doctor. Nothing to worry about."
Her eyes dart to me, full of worry, flickering under the glow. "Red?"
I force my expression to stay calm. "It's fine, Bluebird. Can you and Demi check the roast? We'll be right back."
She hesitates, twisting her fingers around her hair.
Demi hooks an arm through hers and pulls her toward the kitchen. "Let the men talk!"
I nod for Mikhail to follow me. "This way."
He follows.
I shut the door.
Mikhail doesn't sit. Neither do I. He turns slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in that way only men who've proven their physical strength relax. The room shrinks.
He studies my framed degrees on the wall, then the narrow leather couch, and finally me. He deadpans, "Nice setup. Quiet. Is it soundproofed like your client office?"
My chest tightens. He shouldn't know anything about my work, but he knows way more than I imagined. My voice stays even. "That's a strange question."
"That you have soundproof walls?" he pushes.
"Privacy matters in my line of work."
"Does it?" One dark brow lifts. "Or is it convenient for other things?"
I don't flinch. "If you've got something to say, Mikhail, say it. The women are waiting."
He nods once, as if granting permission. Then he steps closer, enough to make the air feel thinner. "You're fucking your patient."
The words ripple across the room.
I step closer, trying to show him I'm not intimidated, even though I understand what he's capable of, and remind him, "She's not my patient and never was one. You erased her time with me, remember?"
A short, humorless laugh escapes him. "So that's why she has appointments with you during office hours?"
He's been watching me.
I cross my arms. "Not sure what you're talking about. And I can assure you there are no files in my office." I grin.
His eyes turn to slits. "You were supposed to have a clean break."
"I never claimed to be perfect."
He tilts his head. "No. You just claim to be the only one who can fix her."
It's the questions I've asked myself a thousand times, replaying Blue's voice in my head about fixing her. But I fight the twist in my gut and keep my face blank. "Blue fixes herself. I try not to get in the way."
He moves again, circling to the side of the desk so we're no longer facing each other square. It's classic positioning to apply pressure without physical touch. I don't turn to follow him, so he thinks he has the advantage.
Mikhail warns, "You know what her father would do if he found out. You know what her uncle would do. And you still stay in her life, then parade her in front of me in a dress like she's yours to show off."
My words come out low, possessive, before I can temper them. "She is mine. And she chose the dress. She chose this dinner tonight. But more importantly, she chose me." My heart beats harder.
Mikhail stops behind my chair. His presence is like heat rolling off asphalt.
"Choice is a luxury she's never really had.
You know that better than anyone. You've read every page of her file.
Every scar. You've listened to her cry about how much she hates the noise in her head. And you still put your dick in her."
My hands flex at my sides. I threaten through gritted teeth, "Careful."