Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Kira
Artyom follows me upstairs without saying much, one hand resting low on my back as if he’s still grounding himself, and I wish I could relax into it the way I did last night.
I wish I could let myself feel safe, let myself breathe, let myself be the woman he thinks I am, the one who doesn’t hide things from him.
But the money in my bag feels heavier than it should, and the promise I made Lucas hangs over me like something sharp waiting to fall.
When we reach our room, he shuts the door behind us and stands there for a moment, looking at me with that steady gaze that always makes me feel like he sees too much.
The dark circles under his eyes look deeper today.
His shoulders are tight like he’s been holding tension since the moment we woke up.
He walks toward me slowly, stopping close enough that I feel his breath on my cheek. He touches my jaw with the back of his fingers, gentle in a way that messes with my chest.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly.
“I’m tired.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either, and we both feel that.
He studies me for several long seconds, his thumb brushing a slow line under my lip. “Last night felt like something good,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to wake up and feel like you’re slipping away again.”
My throat tightens. “I’m not.”
“Then look at me.”
I lift my eyes to his. There’s something raw there, something honest, and it makes everything inside me twist. He’s trying. He’s opening a door I never thought he’d even acknowledge, and I’m about to walk through it holding a lie behind my back.
“Promise me something,” he says.
“What?”
“Don’t lie to me again.” The words hit me straight in the stomach, they’re so honest.
My heart breaks cleanly in one slow crack.
“I…” I swallow. “I’ll try.”
He doesn’t accept that. His hand slides to the back of my neck and he pulls me to him, our breaths mingling.
“No trying,” he says quietly. “I need you to promise me.”
I close my eyes because looking at him makes it harder. “Okay,” I whisper. “I promise.”
The lie burns the second it leaves my mouth.
He exhales like he’d been waiting for that breath. He pulls me closer, his hand sliding down my spine, slow and warm and steady, and my whole body reacts to him in a way I can’t hide. His fingers curl into my hip and he lifts my chin with the other hand.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Come here.”
He kisses me before I can say anything else. His lips are warm and searching, not rushed but not patient either. It feels like he’s trying to anchor himself to me, trying to make sure I’m still here, and it’s the gentleness that ruins me because he has no idea what I’m planning.
His hands move over my waist, up my ribs, touching me like he’s memorizing the shape of me. The kiss deepens, turns hotter, more certain, and when his mouth trails down my neck my breath catches in my throat.
He lifts me easily, his palms sliding under my thighs, and lays me down on the bed without breaking the kiss. The weight of him settles over me, familiar and grounding and terrifying in a way I don’t want to think about.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Nothing.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing my hair off my cheek. “Kira.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk right now. Too much has happened lately. I’m just… overwhelmed.”
He searches my face again, but whatever he sees—the tremor of guilt, the raw, undeniable need—makes him let it go. His eyes, darker than I’ve ever seen them, lock on mine, reading the panic and the desire, accepting them both.
He leans down and kisses me, deep and warm, his tongue immediately claiming mine with the possessive ease of ownership.
His hands slide under my shirt, roaming my bare skin, spreading heat across my stomach and back, tracing the curves and angles in a way that makes me forget everything for a moment—the money, the park, the lie.
We lose the rest of our clothes piece by piece, shedding the fabric onto the carpeted floor.
Our bodies fit together like they’ve done this a hundred times before, the hot, slick contact of skin on skin making my pulse jump erratically.
He pushes me back onto the soft mattress, following me down instantly, covering me with his weight.
He braces his arms on either side of my head, looking down at me, the low light catching the fierce possessiveness in his gaze. He shifts his weight, positioning himself between my legs, pressing the throbbing, heavy length of him against my slick, swollen center.
He pulls back just enough to look at my eyes, his voice a low, rough rumble. "Tell me you want me more than anything else right now, Kira. Say it."
I can’t speak, the sound caught in my throat, so I arch my back, silently begging for the invasion. My hips push up, demanding the pressure. He takes the cue, groaning low in his chest—a rough, deep sound that vibrates through my entire body.
He grips my hips with both hands, his fingers digging into my flesh, and pushes into me in one, powerful, deliberate thrust. The full, absolute shock of the contact steals my breath, the hardness of him settling heavy and complete inside me.
I gasp, biting back the sound, my nails digging into the sheets as my body stretches and adjusts to the profound invasion.
He watches my face the whole time, his movements deep and slow.
His breath is ragged, the intensity of his gaze a physical claim.
Every stroke is measured, deliberate, forcing the pleasure to build excruciatingly slow.
The sincerity in his eyes—the way he looks like this is the only anchor left in his world—makes something twist painfully in my chest, mixing the raw physical sensation with the deep-seated guilt.
He pulls his hips back, nearly withdrawing, then slams forward again, using his own body to drive out the confusion and the fear, replacing it with the undeniable heat of his presence.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against my mouth, his voice low and rough, anchoring me with his absolute possessiveness.
“Yours,” I moan
“You love me.”
“I love you.” My voice breaks around the word, the truth of it raw and desperate.
He closes his eyes briefly, absorbing the word like a blow.
Then he thrusts harder, his rhythm accelerating, punishing and absolute, pushing me against the wall as if to prove the strength of the claim he just made.
His hands tighten on my hips, holding me in place for the brutal, beautiful pace, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.
I hold onto him just as tightly, locking my legs around his waist, matching his intensity.
When everything builds too fast, too strong, he kisses me again, swallowing the sound I make as I fall apart under him—a ragged cry of surrender and relief that he silences with his mouth.
My body seizes, shaking violently, and he uses the contraction, pushing his own climax out with a deep, guttural sound of finality.
He stays exactly where he is, pressing against me, his body trembling, his breath shuddering against my neck, both of us fully exposed to the silent, dark hallway beyond the door.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The silence returns, heavy with the sweat and scent of our bodies. I run my fingers down his back, feeling the warm, strong line of his spine, committing the moment to memory because it feels like something I shouldn’t lose, and something I just sacrificed.
He finally lifts his head and kisses me once more, slow and soft.
“Sleep,” he murmurs. “You have an early shift.”
I nod, pushing hair off my face. “One of the bodyguards can drive me. You don’t have to get up.”
He brushes his thumb across my cheek. “I’ll get up anyway. I have to meet my father.”
But he doesn’t push. He pulls me against his chest, one arm heavy around my waist, and I try to memorize the feeling of him holding me because I know what I’m about to do will break something between us even if he doesn’t know it yet.
I wake before the alarm, before the sun, before anything in the house stirs.
The sky outside is still dark blue, the kind of early morning that feels too quiet.
Artyom is asleep beside me, one arm draped across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
I lie there for a moment, staring into the dark, telling myself I should stay. One more minute. One more breath.
But the clock is ticking.
I slide out from under his arm as slowly as I can. He shifts slightly but doesn’t wake. I pull on jeans, a warm jacket, and lace my shoes with shaking hands. My bag is already packed with the money, and I hold it close to my chest before stepping out of the room.
The house is silent, every shadow sharper than usual. I walk down the stairs trying not to make a sound. The bodyguard assigned to me—Anton—waits near the door, half-asleep but alert enough to straighten when he sees me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He opens the door and follows me to the car. I climb into the back seat, my fingers already tight around my bag.
He doesn’t ask questions. They never do unless ordered.
The drive to the hospital takes fifteen minutes, and the entire time my stomach twists tighter and tighter.
I stare out the window, watching the city wake in slow motion, lights flickering on, steam rising from vents, people starting their day while I’m about to betray the one person who’s ever really protected me.
When we pull up, I force a smile. “Can you grab coffee across the street? I want to walk a bit before my shift.”
He hesitates. “Mr. Morozov said—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “I’ll text you if anything happens.”
Anton stares at me for a second too long, then nods. “Five minutes.”
I thank him and walk straight past the hospital entrance, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
The park is only a few blocks away, small and quiet, trees bare from the cold. The lamps glow a soft yellow, lighting the stone path. A few pigeons pick at the ground. The air is freezing, my breath a visible cloud.
Lucas is already there, standing near the far bench, a bag at his feet, his shoulders hunched. When he sees me, he straightens, relief rushing over his face.
“You came,” he says, sounding like he truly doubted I would.
“Of course, I did.” My voice is shaky. “Do you have to leave right now?”
“Yes.” He glances around. “I shouldn’t even be out here this long.”
I reach into my bag and pull out the envelope of money. My fingers tremble when I hand it to him.
“Be careful,” I whisper.
He doesn’t take it at first. He looks at me, eyes hollow and desperate. “Come with me.”
“Lucas—”
“You have to come with me,” he says, stepping closer. His voice rises, shaky and frantic. “You promised we’d always stick together.”
My stomach twists. “I said I can’t come.”
He rubs both hands hard over his face like he’s trying to wipe the panic off. “Kira, I can’t do this alone. I can’t leave without you. Please just—” He steps forward again, reaching for my arms.
And then everything freezes.
Because the gravel on the path behind us crunches under heavy footsteps and Lucas’s hands drop from my sleeves.
I turn.
Artyom is standing at the edge of the path.
He’s not alone. Vladimir is beside him, hands folded behind his back like he’s admiring the sunrise, and Boris stands a few steps to the side, his expression unreadable.
All three men watch us, and the air shifts instantly, sharp and dangerous, like something was waiting under the surface and just broke through.
My brother played me.