Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kira
For a second, I just stare at him. There’s a weight in his eyes that wasn’t there before, a kind of. He’s still angry, still burning under the surface, but there’s also this… need to shift the focus, to ground himself in something that isn’t violence.
I place my hand in his before I can talk myself out of it. His fingers close around mine, strong but steady, and the heat of his palm spreads up my arm like static. He leads me toward the floor where couples are already moving, slow and graceful under the golden light.
The moment his hand closes around mine, the rest of the room disappears.
His palm is warm, calloused in the center but his hold careful. He doesn’t look at me as he leads me to the dance floor, people parting without being told, the music wrapping around us. I feel like this is a mistake and I should pull away, but my legs move before I decide to.
His hand settles on my back, low enough to make me forget how to breathe. The other holds mine lightly, a contrast that feels deliberate—control and restraint, pressure and permission. My chest brushes his with every slow step, and I can smell him: smoke, citrus, a trace of expensive whiskey.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his collar, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as we move.
“Because I need to stop thinking about killing him.” His voice is rougher than before, low enough that I feel it in my stomach.
“That’s comforting,” I murmur, my fingers tightening slightly in his.
“You wanted honesty.”
His finger moves along my spine, tracing lazy circles through the thin fabric.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
My pulse stumbles, my knees weak, and I have to steady myself against him, my palm pressed to his shoulder.
He’s warm there, solid in a way that makes it hard to remember what I was angry about.
“You ever do anything halfway?” I ask, my voice quieter now.
“No.” His mouth almost touches my temple, his breath brushing across my skin, sending a shiver down my neck. “You?”
“Sometimes,” I whisper. “Depends on the risk.”
He turns me with a precision that shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, his hand sliding briefly to my lower back before returning to the proper place, but that one second is enough to make heat crawl up the back of my neck.
“You handled yourself well tonight.”
I laugh quietly, glancing up at him through my lashes. “You mean at the table or when your ex-supposed-to-be-father-in-law tried to set you on fire?”
“Both.” His lips twitch, but only slightly.
The music shifts into something slower, darker, a rhythm meant for closeness. I can feel the faint brush of his thigh against mine with every step. I realize we’re not just moving anymore. We’re breathing together.
I tilt my head up, meeting his eyes for the first time since the fight. His pupils are darker now, his gaze steady but burning at the edges. “You don’t look shaken.”
“I can’t afford to.”
“That’s not the same as not being.”
He studies me for a moment, his eyes tracing my face like he’s memorizing it. His jaw flexes, his breathing slows. “You think you can read me that easily?”
“No,” I admit. “But I can tell when someone’s trying not to feel something.”
His fingers tighten slightly at my waist, just enough to make me lean closer without meaning to. “And what do you think I’m trying not to feel?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
The corners of his mouth shift—not a smile, more like surrender for half a second. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m not trembling.”
His gaze drops to where his hand rests on my back. “You are.”
He’s right. The tremor runs through me like static, from the place he touches all the way up my throat. “Maybe I should blame the alcohol.”
“Blame whoever you want,” he says. “But don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”
I want to be angry, but I can’t. He’s too close, too steady. His confidence fills every space around us until I have nowhere to stand that isn’t inside his gravity.
“Tell me more,” he says after a while, voice softer now. “About your brother.”
The question catches me off guard. “Lucas?”
He nods, eyes still on me. “You’re doing all this for him, after all.”
I look down at our hands as we move. “We used to be really close.”
“What changed?”
“Life,” I say after a pause. “And money. Mostly money.”
He doesn’t interrupt, just waits, the way people do when they actually want the truth.
“He’s two years older than me,” I continue quietly.
I hesitate. “Both my parents died when I was ten. Lucas and I were placed in foster care and got separated. We both had a rough time surviving the system. I didn’t see him again until I was in my early twenties, after looking for him for years.
At first, he said he’d take care of me, but he could barely take care of himself.
He always thought he had to fix everything.
Except he didn’t. He had always gambled to survive once he turned eighteen.
Small at first—cards, football bets, stupid things—but it got worse.
I offered him a place to stay and helped him however I could, to try to keep him out of trouble.
Sometimes, I’d come home to find men waiting in the hallway, wanting what he owed. ”
Artyom’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel something in him go still, like he recognizes the shape of it. “You paid for him.”
I nod once. “Every time I could. I was working two shifts at the hospital, sometimes back-to-back. I’d take a nap in the staff lounge, shower with those awful paper towels, and go back out again. I kept thinking if I covered for him long enough, he’d stop.”
His thumb moves against my waist, barely there, almost like he’s checking that I’m still here. “Did he?”
“I suppose you already know the answer to that since I’m here with you,” I shake my head, a small bitter smile forming. “He just got better at pretending he would. So, I did what I had to.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I learned to survive,” I say quietly. “To make rent before worrying about sleep. To keep my phone charged because you never know when he’ll need help. To smile at people who scare you because it keeps them calm.”
He studies me like he’s seeing something new. “You shouldn’t have had to live like that.”
I let out a breath that sounds more like a laugh. “You think I had a choice?”
His hand presses gently against my back, guiding me through another slow turn. “No,” he says finally. “But I think it explains why you don’t know how to let anyone help you now.”
The words hit harder than they should. I want to argue, but I can’t because he’s right.
“I didn’t know there was another way,” I say, my voice low.
“There is,” he says. “You just haven’t seen it yet.”
I look up at him then, and his eyes are softer now, not cold, not guarded. For the first time, I can imagine what he must have looked like before this life hardened him. For a second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to believe him.
The music softens again, the last few notes fading into applause around us. He doesn’t let go right away. His hand stays at my back, his thumb moving in slow circles, grounding me in a way that feels too gentle for him.
I look up at him. “You talk like someone who’s never had to survive.”
He exhales through his nose, a faint smile on his lips. “Everyone survives something.”
We stand there in silence for a few beats longer than polite. When he finally drops his hand, the absence feels too sharp.
“Come on,” he says, his voice back to that measured calm. “It’s late.”
He offers his arm without a word, and I take it because it’s easier than pretending I don’t want to. The music fades behind us as we walk toward the elevator.
The elevator ride is silent. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks flushed, too alive. He stands behind me, his tie loosened, jacket still open. He’s all shadow and discipline, but there’s something in the set of his mouth that gives him away. He’s overthinking.
When we reach our floor, he holds the bedroom door open and lets me pass first. The hallway feels endless, every step echoing through the quiet. Inside the suite, the air conditioner hums softly, the curtains drawn tight.
He closes the door behind him, his voice low but calm. “We should get some rest.”
I glance at the bed—massive, too neat, somehow intimidating. “Where are you going to sleep?”
He looks at me like the answer’s obvious. “In the bed.”
I blink. “Okay… and where am I supposed to sleep then?”
“In the bed.”
I blink at him, certain I misheard. He’s not even joking—his expression is maddeningly calm, and it makes me want to throw something just to see if he’d flinch.
My stomach twists before I can stop it, half nerves, half something else I don’t even want to think about.
He looks so damn sure of himself standing there with his tie loosened and that faint trace of a smile tugging at his mouth.
I fold my arms. “No.”
That makes him smirk, slow and infuriating. He undoes the top buttons of his shirt, the movement casual but deliberate. “After what happened earlier, you’re shy now?”
My face heats instantly. “That’s not—oh my God, that’s not the point.”
He shrugs, still smirking. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“There’s no way I’m sleeping in the same bed as you.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, the faintest laugh under his breath. “Fine. I’ll take the couch.”
I cross my arms. “Good.”
He gestures toward the bathroom. “Then go change before you fall asleep standing there.”
I roll my eyes but grab my things and head for the bathroom, closing the door a little harder than necessary. My reflection still looks flushed, ridiculous. I take a few seconds to breathe before changing into my nightshirt and tying my hair up.
When I step back out, he’s stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other resting over his stomach.
He’s changed—no more crisp shirt or tie, just a plain black T-shirt and sweats.
The sight catches me off guard. He looks almost…
normal. Just a man sitting in the half-light, broad shoulders relaxed, hair a little messy from running his hands through it.
The lamp beside him throws a soft amber glow across his skin, catching the edge of a faint scar on his forearm.
Something in my chest shifts. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion, but my pulse doesn’t get the memo.
“Get some sleep, Kira,” he says, voice low and warm now, almost teasing. “You’re safe. I’ll be right here.”
I glance at him once more before turning toward the bed. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
His smirk returns. “Too late.”
I slide under the covers, pretending to ignore him, but my pulse won’t slow. The sheets are cool against my legs. I lie on my side facing the wall, pretending to sleep. The room stays quiet except for the occasional creak of leather as he shifts on the couch.