Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kira
I’ve been pacing the room for hours, too wound up to sit still. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face, and the way the lobby went silent the moment he spoke. It plays over and over until I start wondering if I imagined the whole thing.
The city outside is deep in dusk now, a thousand gold lights bleeding through the windows.
Somewhere far below, there’s music, laughter, life.
Up here, it’s just me and the clock ticking too loud, the half-empty coffee cup, the bruise of anger that won’t fade, no matter how many times I tell myself to calm down.
I’ve changed clothes three times, unpacked, and still, I can’t make myself get ready for tonight. Every thought leads back to him. The ring. The way he looked at me like I was something he had to protect, but to never trust.
A knock comes, sharp and sudden, but then the door opens without waiting for permission.
Artyom. He stands in the doorway like he owns it, the soft light from the hall catching on the black of his shirt, the open collar framing the hard line of his throat.
No tie, no expression, just that calm, controlled stillness that makes everything in me want to explode.
His sleeves are rolled once at the wrist, his watch glinting faintly when he moves.
It hits me all at once—anger, heat, confusion—colliding in my chest until I can’t tell which one hurts more. The sound of my heartbeat fills the space, and I swear he can hear it. He doesn’t even flinch when our eyes meet, just watches me, waiting, with patience that feels more like mockery.
Something inside me snaps.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, fingers wrapping around the first thing I can reach—the glass vase on the nightstand. My hand shakes as I lift it, but the movement feels good, sharp, like oxygen finally hitting my lungs.
“Don’t,” he says quietly, but I already have.
The vase explodes against the wall behind him, glass scattering across the marble, the sound cutting through the quiet like a gunshot, but he doesn’t move. Shards glitter near his shoes, a few catching in the cuff of his pants. The only sign he’s even alive is the slow rise and fall of his chest.
When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, deep, steady in that way that makes it worse. “Are you done?”
“Not even close.”
He steps inside, shuts the door with a quiet click. “Then go on.”
I want to scream, to hit him again, to do anything that makes him feel even half of what’s been clawing through me all day. “You could’ve told me,” I say, my voice shaking. “About Irina. About the fact that I’m standing here pretending to be something another woman was supposed to be.”
His eyes narrow, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Who told you?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does.”
“It was your sisters,” I snap. “They told me because apparently you weren’t planning to. And Boris certainly gave it away first.”
He exhales, slow, measured, like he’s counting backward from ten. “It wasn’t your concern.”
“My concern?” I laugh once, sharp but there’s no humor in it. “You dragged me into this mess, Artyom. You put a ring on my finger and paraded me in front of people who already hate me, and you think it’s not my concern?”
He moves closer, and the air between us shifts. “I told you what this was from the start.”
“No, you told me half of it.”
“You wanted your brother safe. I wanted leverage. That was the deal.”
“And Irina?” I ask, my voice quieter now, angrier for it. “Was she part of the deal too?”
His gaze darkens. “Doesn’t matter.”
I cross my arms even though my hands are trembling. “Why? Because it’s inconvenient? Because it makes you look like the bad guy?”
He takes another step, and suddenly the distance between us feels smaller than air. “You think this is about looking good?”
“I think it’s about control. You control everything, everyone. You even control how angry I’m allowed to be.”
His eyes darken as he takes me in, and when he speaks again, his voice drops lower, rough around the edges. “You should see yourself right now.”
My breath catches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He takes a step closer, close enough that the heat from him cuts through the air. “You’re shaking. Flushed. Furious.” His eyes drag down my face, slow, deliberate. “It’s a good look on you.”
“Burn in hell,” I whisper.
He almost smiles. “Already burning.”
The way he says it should make me hate him more, but it doesn’t. It hits somewhere lower, curling through me until I can’t tell if it’s anger or something worse.
He moves closer, step by step, until there’s barely any space left. I can feel the warmth coming off him, the faint rush of his breath when he exhales. His scent wraps around me, and it’s infuriating how much I notice it.
My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to fill the silence for both of us. He looks down at me like he’s memorizing the shape of the moment, his gaze heavy enough to feel like touch.
His hand lifts. Hesitates. Then his fingers brush my cheek, slow enough that I forget how to breathe. The touch barely skims my skin, but it feels electric, dangerous—like he’s daring me to move first.
“Don’t,” I whisper, though it sounds nothing like a warning.
His mouth curves, faint and dark. “Don’t what?”
“Do something you might regret.”
He leans in a fraction closer, his breath catching at my ear. “I never regret anything.”
The air between us thickens, pulsing with the kind of quiet that could turn into anything. My body tenses, waiting for him to kiss me.
But he stops.
His hand falls away, leaving behind a trail of heat that feels like a bruise. For a long moment, neither of us moves. We’re just there, suspended between everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t, breathing the same air, both too proud to close the distance.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, steadier, but the edge is still there. “You shouldn’t have found out like that,” he says. “But I don’t owe you anything.”
I shake my head. “You owe me honesty.”
“I owe you results,” he says. “And your brother being alive is one of them.”
The words cut, and I know he meant them to. I feel it in the tightness in his voice, in the way his shoulders draw back like he’s reclaiming distance.
“That’s all this is to you, isn’t it?” I say quietly. “A transaction.”
He looks at me for a long time, something flickering in his eyes that doesn’t match the words he says next. “Yes.”
I don’t know what makes me move—anger, pride, or that ache I can’t seem to bury. My hand hits his chest before I know it, a weak, useless push that doesn’t move him an inch.
“Stop lying.”
He catches my wrist, firm enough to make my pulse stumble.
His thumb presses against the inside of my wrist, right where my heartbeat is racing. “You think I planned what happened earlier?” he says softly.
“I don’t know what you want.”
“Neither do I.”
The honesty in his tone scares me more than the anger ever could. I should pull away, but I don’t. His grip loosens, and before I can breathe, his fingers slide down, tracing the edge of my palm. My whole body reacts to it.
He’s watching me—his eyes steady, expression unreadable—like he’s trying to memorize the effect he has. My breath comes shallow, uneven. I want to step back, but my body betrays me.
“Artyom,” I say quietly, “let go.”
He does, but slowly as if letting go is its own kind of punishment.
“You should get dressed,” he says after a beat. “We’re expected downstairs.”
I cross my arms again, more for protection than defiance. “Then get out.”
He doesn’t. He moves to the window instead, the setting sun spilling gold across his shoulders. “I’ll wait.”
The words shouldn’t sound like a challenge, but they do.
I turn away, pretending not to care that he’s still there. My hands fumble with the zipper of my suitcase. The rustle of fabric sounds too loud in the quiet room. I pull out a black dress—simple, backless, too tight to breathe in—and lay it on the bed.
When I glance up, he’s still watching.
“Really?” I say. “You’re just going to stand there?”
He shrugs once. “We’ve shared worse.”
He takes a step forward, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to, and stops close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
His voice drops. “Get dressed.”
I can hear my heartbeat, pounding in my chest. His hand lifts again, hovering near my shoulder like he’s fighting himself. My breath catches anyway. I want to hit him again. I want to see him lose that control. I want him to feel something.
Instead, I spin around. “Get out.”
“Not until you’re dressed.”
“I’m not getting dressed in front of you,” I spit, my voice thick.
He cocks his head, a gesture so casual it’s insulting. “Why not? You’re my fiancée.”
A new kind of fire flashes through me, colder and sharper than the anger. Fine. He wants a show? He wants to prove how little this means?
My eyes lock with his. I don't break the contact, even for a second. My hands go to the drawstring of my sweatpants, and I untie them. The movement is slow, deliberate. Challenging. His eyes don’t waver, but I see them darken, the pupils flaring to swallow the color. He’s expecting me to back down.
I shove the soft cotton down my hips. They catch for a moment, and I kick them away, the fabric pooling at my ankles. I step out of them. He looks at me, expectant. Waiting. That infuriating patience is still there, but a muscle in his jaw is ticking.
I got to him.
My fingers find the hem of my tank top. I hook them underneath and pull it up, slow, over my head, feeling the air hit the skin of my stomach. I pull it off and throw it to the floor.
I’m wearing nothing underneath.
The air in the room is cool, but it’s nothing compared to the ice of his stare. My nipples harden instantly, tightening into hard, aching points. It’s not the cold. It’s the way his eyes drag over them slowly, possessively.