Chapter 19
Aurora
The minutes tick at a torturous pace, each one extending longer than the last. My back aches from the awkward position I’m sitting in, and my wrists are chafed from being zip-tied behind me.
How long has he been gone? Two hours? Three? The massive wall of windows shows only darkness, the city lights twinkling far below like fallen stars.
Why did he leave?
The question circles my mind like a shark, every rotation bringing it closer to the surface. Did I do something? Say something? The memory of his angry, demanding mouth on mine burns across my skin. The way I responded in that split second before reality returned.
Did I disgust him? Disappoint him? He’s obviously punishing me by restraining me and leaving me with nothing but my spiraling thoughts and hunger pains for company.
Is he coming back at all?
“He’s coming back. He wouldn’t just leave me here.” But even as the words tumble from my dry throat, cold doubt creeps in.
Why wouldn’t he? I’m nothing to him. A problematic witness. An inconvenience he’s already tired of. Maybe he decided to cut his losses. Maybe right now, men are coming to clean up another mess and dispose of another body.
Mine.
A fresh wave of panic rushes through me when I realize I’m truly trapped.
Unbearable silence stretches until I think I might scream just to hear a voice. Even my breathing sounds too loud and intrusive in this perfect, empty space.
Then I hear a mechanical sound. Distant at first, then growing louder.
I twist toward the elevator as best as I can. The doors grind open with metallic protest, and harsh interior light silhouettes Alexei as his broad shoulders fill the frame.
He’s different. The rigid control, the cold calculation I’ve come to expect, has fractured.
He appears exhausted and disheveled, his hair mussed as if he’s been running his hands through it.
And angry. Not the measured, purposeful rage I’ve witnessed before, but a raw fury that’s ragged around the edges.
In his hand is the kind of battered cardboard pet carrier you get at animal shelters.
My breath catches in my throat.
He stalks toward the table, his footsteps heavy with barely contained frustration. Without a word, he drops the carrier onto the table.
I stare at the box, comprehension dawning. “Is that…?”
He glares at the carrier as if the cardboard personally offends him.
“Stupid fucking cat got cut on the broken glass in your apartment. Cost a fortune to patch up the foot. Needed a few stitches. Could’ve done it myself and saved a lot of trouble.
” He whips out a knife and proceeds to cut the zip ties from my wrists. “Go on. Take your little demon.”
The carrier’s flap falls open. I hold my breath.
A small orange head with twitching whiskers peeks out.
Pixie.
But how? I left her in my apartment with extra food and water when Alexei took me. Figured she’d be safer there than here with this killer. Though, admittedly, neither option’s ideal.
This doesn’t make any sense.
Then it hits me.
Not only did Alexei return to an apartment that’s probably being watched by Gio’s men to retrieve my cat, he took her to a vet. Paid for her to get treated. Brought her back to his place.
For me.
My mind struggles to reconcile these actions with the man who murdered someone in front of me, abducted me, and questioned me for hours. The man who kissed me like he wanted to possess me, then restrained me and left me alone for only God knows how long without explanation.
“You…took her to a vet?” The words come out shaky.
“Animal fucking emergency.” He straightens, rolling his shoulders as if they ache. “Whole place smelled like disinfectant and desperation. Never again.”
Pixie emerges fully from the carrier, moving with the careful dignity of a creature not quite sure of its surroundings. Despite the shaved area on the side of her left rear paw, she doesn’t limp.
My chest tightens.
Why did Alexei do this for me?
He reaches back into the elevator to drag out more items. A litter box. Kitty litter. Cat food. A small bed with a cushion. Even toys. He tosses each item onto the floor with casual disregard.
A dangerous warmth spreads through my chest. Surely not from gratitude.
I refuse to be grateful to the man who upended my life and who’s currently keeping me captive in his fortress of glass and steel.
I note the exhaustion etched around his eyes and the slight droop of his shoulders beneath the leather jacket.
He did this for me.
Not because he had to or because it benefited him in any way. He risked going back to my apartment, spent who knows how much money at an emergency animal clinic, and endured hours in a waiting room, for a cat. For my cat.
For me.
The revelation is too big and complicated to process. His recent actions don’t align with everything else I’ve learned about him. “I don’t suppose you grabbed me a change of clothes while you were there.”
His spine snaps into a straight line. I can tell by his surprise that the thought didn’t even occur to him. “Don’t push your luck,” he grumbles. “Your cat was a menace. She’s lucky I didn’t drop her off in a dumpster.”
Unperturbed by his threat, Pixie arches her back and stretches, then pads over to examine Alexei’s boots with feline curiosity. He shoots her a look I can’t quite peg, some mix of annoyance and reluctant affection.
“She likes you.” The words escape before I can stop them.
“She’s not very smart.” But there’s no real heat in his reply.
An overwhelming torrent of emotion—sharp, painful, and utterly reckless—washes over me. I can’t name or contain it. The feeling rises from some place I didn’t know existed, and its complexity threatens to drown me.
I bend down to pet Pixie, grazing my fingers along her back and getting a closer inspection of her paw. She leans into my touch, purring despite her ordeal. Her familiar motor anchors me. I focus on the solid reality of her presence while trying to ignore the man standing just a few feet away.
But I can’t. Not anymore.
Still crouched, I glance up at him. His expression is a mask of harsh indifference, all traces of the earlier fractures carefully hidden. But I still see the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the weariness that goes beyond physical fatigue.
His gaze, as flat and cold as ever, meets mine. Like he’s daring me to acknowledge what he’s done.
To show weakness.
Before I can second-guess myself, I rise and cross the distance between us. Each step is monumental, like passing a boundary I can never uncross.
His eyes narrow as I approach.
I stop when I’m close enough to smell the leather of his jacket and his subtle musk and evergreen scent, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
I lift my hand, slowly, deliberately, and flatten it against the solid wall of his chest. His heart slams against my palm.
A betrayal of the control his face maintains.
His gaze slides down to my hand, then back to my face. His blue eyes darken. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Thank you.” The words are inadequate, but they’re all I have to offer.
His cool, assessing eyes bore into mine. Dangerous heat simmers beneath the surface, stealing my breath.
His hand covers mine, fingers cuffing my wrist in a painless but unyielding grip disguised as a caress. Beneath my palm, his heart continues its rhythmic beat while my own heart races out of control.
“You think you get to decide when this happens?” His voice rumbles against my skin. “When you touch me?”
“I…”
The answer dies in my throat. My fingertips tingle where they touch his chest, the cotton shirt the only barrier between my skin and his. I should pull away. Flee. Remember who he is, what he’s done, and why I’m here. But I remain frozen, caught in the gravity of his presence.
“You don’t thank me with a touch, lyubimaya.” The Russian endearment flows through me like vodka-spiked honey. “You thank me with everything.”
The implication hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Everything. All of me. My compliance. My surrender. My body. My will.
I should be terrified. Outraged, even. Instead, a treacherous heat blooms low in my belly and fans outward until my skin is too tight.
Too sensitive. His thumb traces small circles on the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point.
Can he feel how it races? How my body betrays me with each quickened beat?
He gives me a chance to retreat, to break the spell and save myself from whatever’s about to happen.
I don’t move.
Can’t move.
The choice slips through my fingers.
Then he bends his head, but it’s nothing like the way he did hours ago. No bruising force, or angry demand, or punishment disguised as passion. This time, he lifts his free hand. Scarred knuckles graze my jawline. With an almost reverent, featherlight touch, he tilts my face up to his.
I stare into his lust-glazed eyes, scouring for…what? Compassion? Humanity? Some sign that the man who saved my cat, who shielded me from bullets, is real and not just another manipulation?
His gaze reveals nothing.
He drops his hand, releases my wrist, and seals his mouth over mine.
The kiss is slow, precise, and methodical in its gentleness. No hands. Only our lips touch. He maps my mouth like he’s memorizing the shape with his careful attention.
He kisses me like I’m some precious treasure that might break.
My head starts to spin, reality tilting on its axis. This isn’t the same man who forced himself on me hours ago. This is someone else, someone who asks instead of takes, who coaxes instead of demands. This is the man who kissed me in the bar.
The contrast leaves me dizzy, confused, and uncertain of which version of him is the mask.
Despite every warning bell—every voice screaming that this is wrong, dangerous, stupid—I begin to respond. My lips part. A small, involuntary sound escapes my throat. Not quite a sigh, not quite a whimper.
A warm, furry presence bumps our legs, inserting itself between us. Pixie. She brushes against my calf as she weaves figure eights around our feet, oblivious to the charged moment she’s interrupting.
I smile against Alexei’s mouth at the absurdity of the situation, unable to help myself. My cat’s playing chaperone to the most dangerous kiss of my life.
The low growl vibrating through Alexei’s chest triggers a primal urge in me. One that responds to his raw masculinity before my brain can intervene.
The kiss deepens, though he still doesn’t touch me with anything other than his mouth.
No hands on my waist, no fingers in my hair. Just the increasing pressure of his lips against mine. He becomes more demanding. Insistent, yet controlled. His tongue sweeps across my lips. I part them more, welcoming him in.
Pixie, who doesn’t want any part of this escalation, scrambles away, disappearing toward the kitchen.
I, however, don’t move.
Alexei hovers above me, head bent to maintain the connection between us, body a wall of radiating heat. He assaults my mouth with systematic passion, snaring me deeper into his web.
And God help me, it’s working.
My breath comes out in short pants. Everything is so overwhelming. His soft lips on mine, the scruff of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze, his heady scent. He’s plowing through all my carefully constructed walls.
My captor.
My protector.
I want to hate him. Should hate him. But with his lips devouring mine, hatred is the furthest thing from my mind.
The kiss roughens at the edges.
His teeth graze my lower lip. Not quite a bite, but a reminder that his gentleness is a choice, not a necessity. The act is simultaneously intoxicating and terrifying. This measured aggression and calculated seduction.
My traitorous body leans in, craving more, and I forget everything but the electric current running between us.
In our first real physical contact beyond our lips, Alexei nudges a knee between my thighs. I gasp as white-hot pleasure surges to my core. My hands hover at my sides. I want to touch him, but I’m afraid to cross that line without permission.
As if that sound, that hesitation, was exactly what he was waiting for, he breaks contact and backs away. The sudden absence leaves me flushed, disoriented, and swaying.
I blink up at him, lips still parted, breaths uneven.
The mask, complete with cold, flat eyes, slips back into place. As if he didn’t just turn my world upside down.
Again.
He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “You know where the bathroom is. There’s a guest room beside it.”
Before I can respond or understand what the hell just happened, he pivots and strolls away.
Unhurried, casual, and not conflicted in the least.
I find myself alone in the middle of his vast, empty loft, my body humming with unfulfilled desire, my mind an array of dizzying emotions.
Pixie materializes to nudge against my leg.
In my search for some kind of solace to soothe my fractured heart, my hand drifts to my grandmother’s necklace. “I know. I don’t understand it either.”