Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kira
Laughter rolls through the room, bouncing off marble and glass, a sound that feels rehearsed.
My lips tingle from the kiss he gave me minutes ago.
I can taste him every time I swallow, and it makes me furious because I know what it meant to him.
A show. A claim. A way to remind everyone here that I’m his possession, not his partner.
But my body doesn’t seem to care about any of that. It remembers the heat of his mouth, the roughness of his hand at my waist, the quiet sound he made right before he let me go. It’s pathetic, how much I wanted him to do it again.
I’m still trying to breathe normally after that kiss when someone at the table calls out, “What about the fiancée? Let’s see if she’s as lucky as she looks.”
It takes me a second to realize they’re talking about me.
I glance at Artyom, expecting him to shut it down, but his jaw tightens instead. He doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything for that matter. Just that small shift in his shoulders, the one I’ve already learned means he’s thinking about how much of himself to give and how much to keep.
Boris smirks, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place. “Come on, Morozov. Surely your woman knows a few games. Or did you pick her for something else?”
The table laughs, a low menacing sound that makes the back of my neck heat.
Artyom’s eyes flick toward me. I can feel the warning there, that silent question: Can you handle this? I don’t answer. I just step forward and take the empty chair across from Boris.
The men make room like they’re letting a child sit at the adult table for the first time. One of them, a slick guy with too much cologne and a gold watch big enough to blind, slides a stack of chips my way. “We’ll go easy on you, sweetheart.”
“I think that would be a little boring now, wouldn’t it?” I say, settling in.
A few of them laugh again, but this time it’s uneasy. Artyom’s hand rests heavy on the back of my chair. His touch doesn’t move, but I feel it everywhere, the heat of it climbing up the side of my neck.
Cards shuffle, making a crisp sound. Poker.
Lucas’s image flashes before me and the way he used to sit cross-legged on the living room floor, teaching me how to read people instead of cards.
Forget the numbers. Watch their hands, their mouths. People always talk without meaning to.
I inhale through my nose, slow and calm.
The dealer slides the cards out like he’s cutting through air. Two for each of us. The men look at their hands, murmuring small things under their breath. I don’t move. I’ve seen this game before. Lucas used to deal with the same kind of guys, only cheaper suits and worse poker faces.
“Big blind’s on you, sweetheart,” the man with the watch says. He flashes me a grin that doesn’t touch his eyes.
I throw in a few chips. “Let’s make it interesting.”
He laughs. “Bold move for your first hand.”
“Guess we’ll see,” I say, voice even.
The first few rounds go fast. I fold twice, letting them think I’m hesitant and they’re winning.
They eat it up. Artyom stands behind me, one hand in his pocket, the other resting casually on the back of my chair, his thumb brushing against the fabric of my dress.
I can feel the weight of his gaze as much as the warmth of his body behind me. It’s distracting.
The third hand starts. Watch guy raises, and I meet it. He’s too confident. His jaw ticks when he’s bluffing, and he doesn’t know I’ve already caught it. I match his bet, keeping my eyes on the cards, even though what I’m really watching are his fingers. Two taps on the table. Always the same.
“You sure you want to keep playing, sweetheart?” he asks. “Might be embarrassing when your luck runs out.”
I smile. “I don’t mind embarrassment.”
Boris snorts. “That’s one thing you two have in common then.”
The table laughs, rough and mean. I don’t. I lean forward instead, sliding my chips to the center, my tone soft but cutting as I smile. “You know, you talk a lot for someone about to lose.”
His grin falters just enough to make it worth it.
The turn card lands—king of hearts. His tell shows again, two small taps. My pulse steadies. He thinks he’s got it, but he’s about to be thrown off.
“I’m all in,” I say, pushing the rest of my chips forward.
The laughter stops. His eyebrows shoot up, then lower, suspicion flickering across his face. Artyom hasn’t moved an inch behind me.
“You serious?” Watch guy says.
“Deadly.”
He calls it, throws his cards down with a smug smile. Two queens. I flip mine—king and ace. The table erupts.
“Holy shit,” someone mutters.
“Beginner’s luck,” another says.
I gather the chips slowly, letting the silence stretch, feeling their stares on me. The air shifts. They’re not amused anymore. They’re trying to figure out if I got lucky or if they just got played.
Artyom’s hand moves again, his thumb tracing an absent line across my shoulder. The smallest gesture, but I can feel the approval in it.
“Guess she’s got more than luck,” Mikhail calls from the bar, grinning. “Don’t look so shocked, boys. You invited her.”
The dealer deals again. New cards, new tension. I win the next hand, small. The one after that, bigger. By the fourth, nobody’s laughing. The man with the watch avoids my eyes now. The one with the neck scratch folds early, muttering something about bad timing.
“You’ve done this before,” one of them says, watching me like I’m something to figure out.
I shrug. “Beginner’s luck.”
Boris leans back, swirling his drink. “Or maybe you’ve had practice. Tell me, nurse, how does one learn to lie so well?”
The words hit sharp, but I don’t flinch. “Some of us are fair players. We don’t need to lie to win. I just pay attention.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
Artyom’s voice comes low, controlled. “That’s enough, Boris.”
I look back at him, the muscle in his jaw twitching once before going still.
Boris smirks. “Just a compliment, my friend. Not my fault she plays better than half your men.”
Artyom says nothing, but his hand leaves my chair. The sudden absence of it feels colder than it should.
The last hand begins. The pot is heavy, the room tense with it. I win again, and the dealer whistles low under his breath. Nobody says anything after that.
Artyom still hasn’t said a word but his thumb goes back to moving in slow, idle circles against the back of my chair, like he’s grounding himself—or me. It’s strange, but that small motion keeps me steady. When I glance up, his eyes are on me, unreadable but alive in a way I haven’t seen before.
Boris chuckles under his breath. “Luck, or training?”
I meet his eyes across the table, forcing myself not to look away. “My brother taught me.”
Artyom’s gaze sharpens at that, a flash of something that looks almost like understanding. Or maybe warning.
Boris lifts his glass, eyes flicking over me like I’m something he found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Pretty little thing. Fragile, though.” His gaze drops to my hands. “She trembled during the game. I thought you’d choose someone with a steadier backbone.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Behind me, I feel Artyom go still in that way he does when something hits a nerve.
His voice comes quiet and edged, the tone that not loud but making everyone straighten. “What’s wrong, Boris? Didn’t like losing at poker tonight?”
“Oh, don’t start,” Boris says with a dry laugh. “I’m simply curious. You had an alliance with my family, and now you show up with...” He waves a hand at me like I’m a misplaced appetizer. “Hard not to ask questions.”
Artyom’s voice is low and controlled. “If you have a problem, speak to me. Don’t aim at her.”
For a brief second, Boris studies him, something sharper slipping through the surface. Then he sets his napkin down and stands. “I’ve said enough.”
Boris just pushes back his chair and stands, like he’s finally bored of the whole thing. Then he turns and walks off without another word, slowly walking away from the table.
Silence falls heavy in his wake. I realize my hands are clenched so tight my nails have left small half-moons on my palms. I uncurl them slowly, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest.
Artyom doesn’t move right away. His jaw works like he’s grinding down a thousand things he wants to say.
The tension in his shoulders ripples like a tide he’s forcing back.
Around us, the music swells—soft jazz, polished and slow—but nobody’s really listening.
Conversations start in low murmurs at nearby tables, the sound of glasses clinking, the dull rustle of clothes shifting.
I watch him breathe, long and steady, like he’s counting each exhale. It takes a while before the tightness in his face loosens and the stiffness in his stance begins to fade. He turns his head slightly, eyes flicking over the crowd, and when they find mine, something in them has changed.
He straightens his cuffs with that same cold precision he always has, as though nothing just happened, as though the air between him and Boris didn’t almost crack open.
Then, after another long silence, he speaks, soft enough that I almost don’t believe I heard him right. “Let’s dance.”
I blink. “What?”
He steps closer, extending his hand. The move is effortless, practiced, but the quiet roughness in his voice betrays him. “If I stand here any longer, I’ll do something I’ll regret. So, dance.”