Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Artyom
Milana’s voice cuts through the car like a siren—bright, relentless. Calina sits beside me, the picture of calm, scrolling through her phone while Milana talks enough for both of them.
“You should’ve warned her, Tyoma,” Milana says, grinning at her reflection in the window. “Dragging her to Sicily at such short notice? She’s probably barricading herself in.”
Calina glances up. “You enjoy provoking him.”
“I enjoy honesty.” Milana smirks. “You saw her. She’s terrified of him.”
I shift in my seat, ignoring her. Terrified isn’t the word I’d use. Cautious, maybe. Smart enough to recognize danger when she sees it. The kind of woman who still looks you in the eye even when she’s shaking.
“She’ll manage.”
“She’ll faint,” Milana corrects. “Or curse you in her sleep.”
“Probably both,” Calina murmurs, hiding a smile behind her cup.
I sigh, drumming my fingers once against my knee. They talk like this is a game, like bringing Kira into my world is some harmless experiment. They don’t understand what’s waiting on the other side of it or how fast something this fragile can break.
I clear my throat, “Are you two done?”
Milana grins wider, completely unbothered. “Not even close. Want me to go get her?”
“No,” I say, already opening the door. “I’ll do it myself.”
I pull my coat tighter, half to keep out the cold, half to shut down the noise in my head. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, counting the seconds it takes for irritation to fade into something else. Curiosity, maybe. Whatever waits upstairs, it’s better handled alone.
Her door is closed when I reach it, so I knock once. Nothing. Another knock—sharper. Still nothing. Then a muffled voice.
“Hold on!”
There’s movement behind the door—the soft drag of bare feet, the muted click of metal against wood. The handle turns, hinges sigh, and then she’s there.
The robe clings like it’s part of her skin, tied loose enough to hint at what’s underneath. Damp hair clings to her collarbone, catching droplets that trail down before sinking into the fabric. Her skin is flushed from the shower, warm against the cool light spilling in from the hallway.
For a heartbeat, I forget why I came up. Every word I meant to say evaporates.
She freezes when she sees me. “You could’ve texted.”
My voice comes out lower than intended. “I did.”
Her mouth parts, a small, involuntary thing. She adjusts the robe, the belt pulling tighter around her waist. I catch the scent of her soap, something faintly sweet, and it hits harder than it should.
“I was in the shower,” she says, tightening the belt of her robe. “Patience apparently isn’t one of your strongest traits.”
I lean against the doorframe, unbothered. “You were taking too long.”
She glares, but it doesn’t quite land; she’s too flustered. The robe slips slightly and she catches it with a small curse, pulling it back into place.
For a split second, my focus follows the movement—the curve of her shoulder, the drop of water tracing down her collarbone, the soft tug of fabric against skin. It’s nothing, and yet it hits me harder than it should. My pulse jumps, quick and unwelcome, and I hate that she notices the pause.
“Nice timing,” she mutters.
The corner of my jaw tightens. I need it gone, that flicker of heat she doesn’t even realize she’s caused. “Get dressed,” I say, sharper than before. “We’re leaving.”
She exhales through her nose, muttering something about divine punishment, and disappears inside. The door clicks shut, leaving me in the hallway with nothing but the scent of her shampoo. I tell myself to look away from the crack of light under the door and fail.
After a few minutes, the latch turns again.
She steps out dressed, hair still damp but brushed, jeans hugging her legs, blouse soft and pale against her skin.
The transformation is immediate; the flustered girl in the robe is gone, replaced by someone trying very hard to pretend none of that happened.
“Happy now?” she asks, one hand still at the collar of her blouse like she’s daring me to comment.
“Getting there.” My eyes trace her for half a second longer than I should—the neat line of the fabric, the way the color warms against her skin. She’s beautiful, and the worst part is that she doesn’t seem to know it.
She gives me a look sharp enough to cut. “You really enjoy this control thing, don’t you?”
I take a slow breath, forcing my voice even. “It works.”
“On who?” Her chin lifts, just a little. She’s testing me now, eyes locked on mine. There’s no fear there, only infuriating defiance.
My mouth almost curves into a smile, but I kill it before it shows. “On everyone,” I say simply.
She mutters something under her breath, brushing past me toward the door. The faint smell of her shampoo catches again, and for a moment it’s too easy to imagine how quickly all that defiance would change if I just reached out, pulled her closer, made her—
I shut the thought down. Control wins, as always.
“Let’s go,” I say, and follow her out.
The sisters are waiting for us when we reach the street. Milana waves from the back seat before the car even stops. “Finally! We thought you’d fallen asleep in there.”
Calina’s smile is softer. “Hi, Kira,” she calls through the open window. “You look lovely.”
Kira hesitates for half a second, then returns the smile, still clutching her bag. “Hello.”
Milana leans forward, grinning. “See? I told you she’d be on time. You worried for nothing, Tyoma.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I say, opening the door for Kira.
“Sure you weren’t.” Milana winks at me as Kira climbs in beside me, brushing her sleeve against mine. The scent of her shampoo lingers, maddeningly distracting.
Calina hands Kira a paper cup from the console. “Coffee. We thought you might need it after dealing with him.”
Kira laughs, the sound small but real. “You have no idea.”
Milana gasps in mock offense. “Already ganging up on him? I like her more and more every day.”
“So do I,” Calina says lightly, settling back in her seat. “She’s honest.”
Kira blushes a little, hiding behind her coffee. I start the car, pretending I don’t notice.
Milana nudges Calina. “See? They’re cute together.”
“Enough,” I say, but there’s no real edge to it.
Milana only laughs, tilting her head toward Kira. “Don’t mind him.”
“I’m learning,” Kira says, smiling into her cup.
Calina and Milana exchange a knowing look in the back, already chatting about plans for later. Their laughter fills the car, soft and easy, and it makes everything feel less like a job and more like something dangerously close to normal.
I start the car. She doesn’t look at me; she watches the street slide by instead. Her hair’s begun to dry in loose waves, catching the light whenever we pass under the gaps between buildings. For a man who doesn’t believe in distractions, I find myself cataloguing every one of them.
Milana’s laughter carries from the back seat. “You two look like newlyweds who already regret it.”
“Drive faster,” Kira says under her breath.
I hide a smile. “She’s not wrong.”
She turns her head sharply toward me. “Excuse me?”
“You’re tense,” I say, keeping my tone mild. “People will notice.”
“People already notice,” she mutters. “You’re six-foot-three and terrifying.”
Milana gasps theatrically. “He is not terrifying. He’s adorable when he’s bossy.”
Calina sighs. “Milana.”
“What? I’m boosting morale.”
Kira snorts into her coffee, and for a second, the edge between us softens.
The rest of the ride is quiet except for the hum of the city and Milana’s playlist drifting from the speakers. Kira leans her head against the window, the sunlight painting faint gold over her skin.
When our arms brush, the contact is brief, accidental, but it sends an odd current through the stillness. I focus on the road, pretending not to notice.
The private terminal is quiet. The air smells of jet fuel and polished marble. A man in a suit steps forward the second we pull up, greeting me by name and shaking my hand with that particular blend of deference and calculation I’ve grown used to.
Kira lingers a step behind my sisters, close enough to Milana to pretend she belongs there. The jet waiting on the tarmac glints white under the morning sun, perfect and clinical, like every other expensive cage I’ve ever built.
Calina leans toward Kira, her voice light. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t crash them.”
Kira manages a small laugh. “That’s comforting.”
Her tone’s casual, but I can see the tension in her hands, the way she keeps them buried in her coat pockets. I could tell her that it’s normal, that it’ll pass once we’re in the air—but I don’t. Some things you learn by feeling them.
Inside, the jet feels like any other—polished surfaces, quiet air, everything exactly where it should be.
I’ve been in rooms like this since I could walk straight; there’s nothing worth noticing.
But Kira’s jaw almost drops, and that draws my attention.
For me, it’s routine. For her, it’s another world.
Kira hesitates on the steps, eyes flicking over the cabin before she follows us in. She tries to mask it, but I see the small tell—the quick inhale, the way her gaze lingers on the seats like she’s measuring how much she doesn’t belong here.
“Sit near the back,” I tell Calina and Milana. The jet’s fitted with two long couches facing each other, and they claim one immediately. Their laughter fills the cabin like background noise I’ve learned to tune out.
I turn to Kira and gesture toward the wide seat opposite the aisle, more like a couch than a chair, soft cream leather with too much space between us. “Here.”
She gives me a look, half amused, half resigned.
“Of course I will.” But she sits, tucking her legs neatly, pretending not to notice how close I am.