Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Kira
For a second, I freeze, pulse roaring in my ears. There’s someone in here, watching me.
Instinct takes over. I spin, slam my hand against the wall behind me, and flick the light switch. The room flares to life in harsh yellow, too bright after the dark. And he’s there. Leaning casually against the arm of my couch like he’s been waiting.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black that fits him too well to be random.
His jacket hangs open, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the kind of body that belongs in a very different kind of room.
His hair is dark, messy in a way that looks deliberate, and his eyes—God, those eyes—are the kind of cold gray that burns.
For one disoriented second, my mind short-circuits. Because he’s beautiful. Dangerously so. The kind of beauty that doesn’t belong in apartments like mine. Then the fear hits.
“What the hell—” I stumble backward, grab my coffee mug from the table, and throw it as hard as I can.
He moves before it leaves my hand. Just steps sideways, effortless, like he knew what I’d do before I did it. The mug explodes against the wall, porcelain shattering across the floor.
He doesn’t flinch, or even look at the wreckage. His gaze stays on me.
Every cell in my body screams to run. I clutch the blanket from the back of the couch and yank it around my almost naked self, my hands shaking. “Get out!” My voice cracks. “Get out or I’ll—”
He raises a brow, calm as stone. “You’ll what?”
His voice is low, too smooth and threaded with something dark—a faint accent there, hard to place, like it’s been blended over time. It does things to my nerves I don’t want to admit.
“Who are you?” I manage.
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me like I’m a puzzle he’s deciding whether to solve.
The silence stretches too long. I can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the candle sputtering. My mind races through every possible explanation—wrong apartment, hallucination, dream—but none fit the man standing there.
I take a step toward the door, but he moves first, just enough to block my path, the light catching on the faint line of a scar near his throat.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Run.”
My hand tightens around the blanket until my knuckles ache. “You broke into my home. What do you expect me to do? Offer you coffee?”
His eyes flicker with something that almost looks like amusement. “You already threw the mug.”
“Get out. Get out or I’ll call the cops!”
I stare at him, adrenaline burning through my exhaustion.
He doesn’t. He stays there, too still and composed for someone cornering a stranger in her apartment. I make another move for the hallway, but he steps closer, close enough that I can smell his clean, expensive cologne.
“I said—”
He cuts me off. “You scream, and the people who’ll come running aren’t the ones you want to see.”
“What?”
His gaze holds mine, steady and unblinking. “You live alone. Your neighbors won’t open their doors for a woman screaming. Not in this building. You know that, don’t you?”
The calm in his tone terrifies me more than a threat ever could. My breath catches. I grab for my phone on the table, but before I can touch it, he’s there. His hand comes down over mine, firm, hot, and immovable.
“Don’t,” he says again, voice low.
“Who are you?” I choke out, my pulse hammering against my throat.
“Someone who’s not here to hurt you.”
“That’s exactly what someone here to hurt me would say—”
I don’t get to finish. In one smooth movement, he takes the phone from my grasp and catches my wrist, turning me before I can react.
I stumble backward, hit his chest, and before I can twist free, his arm wraps around my waist. The next second, my world flips.
My back is against the floor, the air knocked out of me.
He’s above me, all controlled weight and quiet strength, braced on his forearms. The space between us hums. Every exhale he gives finds the corner of my mouth, warm, rhythmic, deliberate.
My body forgets what to do. My heartbeat isn’t just fear anymore.
It’s faster, heavier, alive. His scent catches at the back of my throat, leather and something that makes the air taste electric.
This can’t be real. I can’t be assaulted in my own apartment. I should be safe here.
“Get off me,” I whisper, though the sound isn’t convincing.
He doesn’t move. His eyes stay locked on mine, steady, assessing, a gray that feels like touch. My chest rises against his with every breath, my skin tightening where our bodies almost meet.
“I told you,” he says, voice lower now, a rough scrape that slides down my spine. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
The line between threat and promise blurs, and I hate that I can feel it everywhere. My breath comes shallow, chest tight against his. “Then what the hell do you call this?”
“Necessary.” His lips curl faintly. “You were going to do something stupid.”
“I should scream.”
“Go ahead.” His gaze drags down to my mouth, slow and deliberate. “No one will come.”
The heat is unbearable; his body solid above mine, the low rhythm of his breathing syncing with mine until I can’t tell which is which. He looks down at me for a long moment, his hand sliding from my wrist to the floor beside my head, knuckles grazing my hair.
“I’m here,” he says quietly, “because of your brother.”
The words break through the static in my brain. “What?”
“I need to talk to you about Lucas.”
For a heartbeat, the world stops moving. My mind stumbles between confusion and dread. “What do you mean? Do you—do you know him?”
“Better than you think.”
The room feels smaller. “Where is he?”
“Alive,” he says simply. “For now.”
I feel a chill run down my spine. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me like he’s deciding whether I can handle the truth.
“You might want to put something on,” he says finally, the words calm but absolute. “This conversation will take longer than you think and I don’t like getting distracted.”
The sound of him speaking that close makes the hair at the nape of my neck stand up. His weight is everywhere—across my hips, along my ribs—a steady presence that keeps my body stubbornly still even as my brain screams for escape.
“Let me up,” I say, voice sharper than I feel.
He watches me slowly, his eyes moving over my face like someone reading a map. “You’ll run.”
The certainty in his voice does something to me.
It’s stupid, irrational, a physical thing: my pulse thuds, a warmth blooms low and unwelcome, and for one maddening second, I imagine what it would feel like to be pressed tighter against him, to let go.
I shut that thought down with a hard inhale so fast it hurts.
He exhales slowly, then shifts his weight, rising slightly but not enough to give me space. The motion drags the fabric of his shirt across the bare skin of my stomach. My pulse spikes again, for all the wrong reasons.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “I told you that you’re safe.”
I snort. Safe my ass. He pushes himself up and offers me a hand. I don’t take it. He notices, and his mouth curves, almost approving, before he straightens fully.
I scramble up on my own, heart still racing, pulling the blanket tighter around me. He’s watching me again, unhurried, the ghost of a smile still at the corner of his mouth.
“Who are you?” I ask, voice rough.
He studies me before answering. “My name is Artyom Morozov.”
This explains the accent. I take a step back, but the wall stops me.
My chest rises and falls too fast, and his eyes follow the movement before drifting higher.
For a second, neither of us breathes. Heat curls low in my body, unwanted, disobedient.
Then his gaze lifts to mine again, like he knows exactly what that look did to me.
Something sharp cuts through the haze. Shame, defiance, survival—whatever it is, it burns hotter than the pull.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I snap.
“Like what?”
“Like—” I bite the word off, because I don’t even know what I mean.
He tilts his head slightly. “You’re shaking.”
“No shit.” I glare at him, humiliated, but he’s right. I’m still in my unclasped bra like an idiot.
“Turn around,” I snap.
He doesn’t.
“Turn around!”
Finally, with a faint sigh, he does, though I can tell he’s still watching me in the reflection of the window. I yank the blouse off the chair and shove my arms through the sleeves, buttoning it as fast as my shaking fingers allow.
When I glance up, he’s already facing me again. “What do you want from me?”
He doesn’t answer my question right away. The quiet between us stretches until I feel it like pressure in my chest.
Finally, he says, “Do you know where your brother is?”
I blink, the question cutting through the tension like a blade. “No.”
“Think carefully before you answer.”
“I said no.” I cross my arms, trying to sound steady. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. Slowly, he steps closer, each step making the room feel smaller. My back brushes the edge of the counter.
“I told you to get out,” I say, my voice quieter now, because my throat is too tight for more.
He stops in front of me. I have to tilt my head to look at him. The light catches on the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple, the watch that probably costs more than my rent.
His hand moves. I flinch, expecting a hit, but his fingers only brush a strand of hair out of my face. The touch is featherlight, impersonal. His palm lingers near my cheek just long enough for me to feel the warmth of it before he drops his hand again.
“You don’t lie well,” he says simply.
I swallow hard. “I’m not lying.”
“I’ve been looking for him for days. All information points here.” His voice doesn’t rise; it doesn’t need to. “He lived with you.”