Chapter 7
Kirill
Anyone else would have buckled by now while I dissected their life. They’d start begging or spinning frantic rationalizations or tossing out explanations.
Not Jordan.
She just stands still, calm as a dark lake, every muscle at rest.
That rankles. Wallets and purses hold personal, intimate things. No one wants that rummaged through and examined.
But this woman? She holds steady as I rifle through her threadbare collection. She’s not defiant, just…anchored. Unmoved.
Like no matter what I do, her mind will stay cordoned off. Unreachable. That’s rare.
And, if I’m being honest…impressive.
Last night, she sat on the floor, rocking herself, her voice gone raw with some mantra. The fear infected her then. Punched straight through. But by morning, she’d patched herself up. Perhaps it’s the light of day that has her feeling better?
Regardless, this will never last. Eventually, they all snap.
I thought the snap might come when I asked about a boyfriend. Her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes widened, and her mouth parted just a bit…
But she just snarked at me. And she was right.
I’m not worried about any average hippie boyfriend coming and trying to steal her back.
Her apartment had no traces of a man, or anyone else aside from the pictures of her and Ashley. And based on her reaction, I’m guessing she hasn’t gone out in a long time.
My mind falls back to last night, when I had her pressed up against the wall.
Her soft skin centimeters away. The scent of her, sweet like florals and sharp like fear…
I wonder if, under “decisive energy,” she put “sex” on that vision board of hers.
Too bad I can’t manifest that for her.
I sift through the rest of her belongings, which I’ve spread out like refuse from a sad little yard sale. A battered receipt for a three-dollar crystal. Spearmint gum, half gone and already losing freshness. A business card for her “wellness podcast.” Not that I have a clue what that really means.
Her wallet contains a state ID, a credit card that probably wouldn’t work, and a coffee shop loyalty card carefully creased with seven stamps. Not even a dollar in cash.
This is her entire existence. Nothing here roots her to anything, and she has no significant ties. She’s just…a drifter.
I glance up to see if she’s faltering. If the sight of her life, stripped bare, affects her. But she just meets my eyes, her own steady and clear. She shouldn’t be able to do that. Not with what happened in that alleyway. Not with blood still on my hands. But she does.
“Find anything interesting?” Her voice is soft but not weak.
Rather than answer, I pick up a small, worn notebook from the pile. Flip through pages filled with loopy handwriting. Lists of “affirmations.” Whatever the fuck that means. Goals she hasn’t achieved. Dreams that will stay dreams. I toss it back onto the table.
“Nothing that matters.”
Her lips curve, just slightly. “It all matters to me.” She delivers the statement like the rules are different in her world.
The simplicity sets my teeth on edge. I grab the last object. A small, glassy vial with a faded label. Lavender, it says. Not what I expected. I stare at the little bottle, which could contain anything. Crack. Fentanyl. Ether.
“It’s just lavender. For anxiety.” She nods at the bottle. “And sleep.”
I place it carefully on the table. “You need a lot of help with that?”
She doesn’t answer directly. Simply watches me with those green eyes that notice too much. “Don’t you?”
My face hardens. I don’t sleep. Just periods of unconsciousness broken by alertness, by the next threat, the next job. I can’t afford the vulnerability of sleep.
Before I respond, she moves. Not away from me, which would make sense, but toward the center of the room.
“My turn!” She reaches for one of the black marble coasters stacked neatly on the coffee table. She holds the circle up between us, examining it with exaggerated care. “What’s this?”
I blink, momentarily disoriented by the role reversal. “A coaster.”
She turns the stone over in her hands, running her fingertips along the edges as if reading braille. “Yes, but what does this coaster mean to you? Why this one? What memories does it hold?”
“It’s just a fucking coaster.”
She nods, unfazed by my tone. Then she gravitates toward the abstract sculpture on the glass side table. Sharp angles of polished steel twist upward like an accident waiting to happen. Or a convenient excuse to explain away blood.
“And this?”
“A block of metal.” I remember how she touched it last night with fingers gentle enough to soothe a spooked animal. “It’s not mine. None of this is mine.”
She spins and stares. “Whose is it?”
“No idea.” I don’t know why I’m not just ignoring her. But I’m compelled to watch as she shuffles around the room, my mouth opening to answer before my mind can catch up.
She picks up a crystal paperweight from the mantel and raises it to the light.
I should shut this down. “Another meaningless object.”
She travels to the bookshelf. Runs her finger along spines of books that have probably never been opened. They’re just decorations to give the house a homey, lived-in appeal. “These?”
A coil of irritation winds through my chest. “What are you trying to accomplish?”
“Just doing the same thing as you.” Her voice is sing-song but matter-of-fact. “Looking for meaning. For connection. For the story behind the objects you surround yourself with.”
“There isn’t one.” My voice comes out harsher than I intend.
She lifts a framed photograph from the shelf. A generic landscape, probably chosen to match the color scheme. “No memories attached to any of it? No sentiment? No story?”
“None of this is mine, and none of it means anything.” I rise to my feet, unable to stay seated under her scrutiny. Why is this getting under my skin? “None of this matters.”
Jordan sets down the photograph and faces me fully. Her expression twists. Not with pity, exactly, but with a clear-eyed assessment that makes me want to avert my gaze.
I don’t.
She does that weird hand gesture she did when I asked about the key again, when she was wandering around the living room alone. “Right. All of this is nothing. Because you have nothing.”
The words land with precision, an acute force to my chest echoing in the sharp hollow. She’s not attacking or even judging. Just naming the vacancy I’ve built to avoid the weakness that would undoubtedly get me killed.
She draws nearer.
Nearer than she should if she had any sense of self preservation.
I tense, bracing for the blow, ready for a strike or retreat, but she does neither.
Instead, she reaches out and touches my hand. “What’s your name?”
Just her fingertips graze my skin, lighter than breath.
An unwelcome electric current snaps through me.
No one touches me. Not like this. Never with kind motives.
Or even neutral ones.
“Kirill.”
Why did I answer with my real name?
Not like she’ll ever have a chance to tell anyone.
She turns my hand palm up. To read? Another one of her fake powers. Rather than the lines, though, she traces the calluses, the scars, the history of violence layered into my flesh.
“You have these.”
I ought to step back. Break the moment. But I’m trapped in the strange intimacy of her touch, her fingers soft and warm against skin hammered thick and hard by years of loyalty to the Kozlov Bratva.
“And you have that.” She nods to the coffee table, where my gun lies in pieces beside her scant belongings. Her eyes lift to meet mine. “You have nothing else, Kirill.”
My name from her lips sets off a stick of dynamite in my chest.
Deep beneath the surface, old fault lines give way. Hoarfrost shatters under uneven pressure.
Jordan sees through me, peeling back armor I never admitted I wore. She names the emptiness I won’t let myself acknowledge, the void I’ve carried since those men left me to freeze. Since I learned survival means chopping off every soft part of yourself.
The parts that humanize you.
I close my hand around hers, swallowing her smaller fingers in my grasp. Not enough to hurt, but enough that she can’t pull away. I loom over her, letting my height work for me. A threat made flesh.
She tilts her head back to keep my gaze, refusing to glance away or yield.
I can respect that.
Almost admire her.
Her body brushes mine, and I catch the heat rolling off her skin. Ice rips apart the soil but gives easily under any kind of warmth, even muted sunlight.
I tug her closer, curious how she’ll react to me upping the ante. The pulse in her throat quickens, becoming frantic. Her eyes widen. A flash of fear, yes, but also…rebellion?
Maybe even a challenge.
I like those.
I flex my fingers over hers. “I have you.” My declaration crackles in the charged space between us.
She shivers, her tongue flicking out over her lips. “And…what are you going to do with me?”
Her question lingers.
What am I going to do?
So many ideas rush through my head.
I should focus on the job. The mission. The key. The leverage she possesses. Information that could save my life.
But right now, I can only focus on the heat of her in my hand, the hitch in her breath, and the restless, searching look in her eyes. She sees me, all of me, and I can’t decide if I want to break her or—
I want to break her. Make her talk. And I want to—
I scour for weakness in her eyes. A tell or an opening.
Instead, I find a hunger that swallows me whole.
I’m unmoored, lost in those depths the same way I was lost in the winter-dark and blood-streaked snow. That familiar sharp and endless loneliness rushes in.
I should be immune by now. For decades, I’ve ignored the sensation, rejected the possibility, even warned others not to be stupid.
But instinct is older than memory.
My face dips, my mouth only a hair from hers. “Whatever I want.”
The air between us vanishes.
I mean for the kiss to be a warning. A demonstration. A harsh reminder about who holds the power here.
But when our mouths collide, the intention slips.
Her warm, defiant lips yield without surrender. She tastes of spearmint gum and…herself. Alive, vibrant, and painfully authentic. A fervent contrast to the frigid mechanism I’ve become.
I brace for the coming resistance. Anticipate the reflex of fear and disgust. Instead, her chin tips back, bridging the gap in height. A surprised gasp claws its way out of her.
And then, against all reason, she kisses me back.
The change hits me like a live wire. Her raw, immediate reply is pure voltage, burning through every layer of self-control.
I want more than the act. I want to shatter.
Her or me?
I move without thought.
Releasing her hand, I slide my palm to her waist. My fingers splay over the curve of her hip, the threadbare fabric a useless barrier to her heat.
She trembles as she gravitates closer.
I bury my other hand in her delicate, silken hair. Too soft for my violence.
The kiss deepens. A slow, careful exploration. I’m not prepared for the gentleness she offers. Her lips part in invitation rather than defeat. A floral scent—lavender, I realize, thanks to that little bottle from her bag—clings to her skin, mixing with notes of citrus hand soap.
I tug her tighter against me, that subtle scent invading my nose and numbing my nerve endings.
Her body melds against mine, the heat of her enough to singe the clothes right off my body.
She is present. Vivid. Every sense occupied.
She’s real. I’m real. In her kiss, I breathe.
For a single, devastating heartbeat, I’m gone.
The fire that kindles in my chest and sparks off through the rest of my body obliterates my intentions, thoughts, and mission.
A molten wildfire inside me turns everything brittle and bright.
She melts, molding into me until she fits like a secret meant to be kept. Her sharp, involuntary breath catches, and her hands come up to rest against my chest.
Thirty seconds stretch like a wire knotted with need and hunger. And in that stretch, every line in me blurs. I forget the parameters, the labels, the cold geometry of bodies stacked in alleyways.
This reckless, inescapable connection erases everything. The connection’s one I never asked for and can’t even name but also can’t refuse.
Then the world snaps back in sharper focus than before.
This isn’t me.
I don’t surrender to feeling.
Only control matters. Control keeps you alive.
I jerk away and rear back so quickly that she rocks on her feet, thrown off-balance by the sudden emptiness between us.
My lungs claw for air, my heart hammering so wildly against my ribs, I half-expect a bone to break.
What the fuck was that?
She shifts, her shoulder scraping the wall, the back of her hand pressed to her lips and white-knuckled. She staggers forward and pivots away, her hair swinging down to shield her face.
I don’t know what she’s thinking because I can’t see her.
Raw, familiar rage ignites.
Not at her.
At myself.
At the shudder in my chest. The breach of discipline. The way my own body just exposed me.
I meant to claim this moment as mine. A calculated show of dominance to maintain control. Instead, my armor slipped. I allowed her to see straight through to the tender meat beneath.
She didn’t have to work for it. Didn’t have to try.
Maybe she is dangerous.
After all, no one ever trained me to fight against someone like her.