Chapter 17
Kirill
The room’s a heat haze of delusion. At least two hundred bodies packed wall to wall. Essential oils hang heavy in the air, clogging my throat. Hope represented by every shade of the rainbow.
I sit in the back row, farthest from the stage, close to the main door leading to the lobby. The shadowy outlier in their sea of grins and chatter.
Two people beside me debate the benefits of candied ginger versus peppermint for homemade nausea remedies.
Why the fuck are we here again?
The whole setup grates on me.
Until the lights cut.
Clothed in my black dress and matching gloves, Jordan struts onto the stage.
Beneath that severe, sculpted silk, she’s a raven in a flock of hummingbirds.
Stamped and set apart. Unmistakable even in her element.
Mine.
The hot, unyielding thought takes root in my chest.
Jordan stands at center stage. No props. No notes. Just herself. Stark elegance above the casual, slovenly masses.
The overhead spotlight shines down, highlighting her face and complete confidence. Not a pretty mask, not desperate bravado pretending to be power. She exudes the absolute certainty of a professional.
“Take a breath with me.” Her hands rise with her inhalation and fall with her exhale. Bizarrely, everyone in the crowd follows her without question or thought.
Two hundred people breathing in tandem, shifting the room’s pressure in an instant, palpable way.
I don’t breathe with them. I don’t take orders from anyone but Roman.
Still, I can’t help but study how easily she commands them. How strangers bend to her rhythm.
This talent isn’t nothing. They’re eating out of her hand, and she just started.
“We’re going to talk about energetic blockages. But not in the way you might think.”
I brace for the nonsense. Chakras. Crystals. Faux-spiritual garbage.
“The body remembers.” Jordan radiates authenticity, her gait slow as she crosses the stage. She’s nothing like the woman in her streams. She understands. She’s lived. “Even when the mind wants to forget.”
She begins the story.
And every soul in the room listens, enraptured.
“When I was younger, I was put in a box. Not literally, of course. I could have easily fought my way out of that.” A laugh ripples through the room. She could ask anything of the huddle of bodies. Anything. “Instead, I was given a costume. A role. Someone else’s version of me.”
This should have been a boring, mystic, mumbo-jumbo lecture I could half-sleep through. But if this is the opening line, I was clearly mistaken. My back tightens.
My muscles tense.
I’m in dangerous territory.
“I’m wearing a costume now too.” Her gloved hand drifts up, tracing the chokehold neckline and the sharp lines of the dress. My dress. “Not my usual style, is it?”
The audience chuckles again. Heads shake. They know her from her blog. The earth-toned drapery, the crystals, the goddess posing in sunshine.
Jordan smiles. “That’s the thing about costumes.” A new current—bright and wicked—enters her voice. “They’re cages or keys. They trap us, or,” she spins, the silk arcing out, a black flare slicing the air like wings, “they transform us.”
The greedy crowd leans in.
So do I. I can’t stop myself.
I see the teeth behind her smile. This isn’t about the dress, not really. It’s about me. About the way I pressed her into these clothes, how I meant them as a collar, as proof she’s mine.
And now she’s flexing those chains right in front of everyone.
This is not the woman who smacked the bottom of a trash can and shouted about auras and energies at the top of her lungs, even if that was just a ploy to escape.
She’s magnetic. And a menace.
Jordan whirls, swaggering across the stage.
“When someone wants to box you in, when they try to dictate how you show up, you only get two choices.” One finger stabs the air.
“Reject it. Tear it off. Refuse.” Another finger.
“Or take it. Seize it. Twist it into power they never intended to give you.”
They’re fixated on her, some scribbling notes, some breathless. They think she’s clever.
She is. Just not for the reasons they believe.
She prowls before them, every stride a claim. “I chose the second path.” Her electric eyes find mine, glinting with a dare. “I took what was supposed to imprison me and found freedom inside it. Because no one can lock you down if you won’t let them.”
The audience erupts. The applause crashes and rolls.
Background noise. All my focus stays on Jordan. On the way she stands and the flush in her skin. The mastery of her words.
Worse than rebelling outright, she outsmarted me.
Obeyed every order. Put on the dress that marked her as other in this crowd. Used it as a prop in her unrehearsed speech.
Hot, jagged fury pulses through my chest.
I’ve spent years outmaneuvering threats.
Men with blades and guns. Rivals who believe money can buy immunity. Enemies who weaponize the fact that they’ve got nothing left to lose. I know how these threats work. I can counter them.
But her?
She used me. Burrowed under my skin, tricked me, and did exactly what she wanted without ever going against my own commands.
From over the crowd, she catches sight of me and steadily holds my gaze for one extra beat. And then her mouth curves, slow and sharp, in a private challenge.
Taking a deep breath, I fight to keep my own lips from curling up.
She’s going to be a real fucking problem.
And I kind of think it’s sexy.
Kirill
Applause melts away at the end of Jordan’s presentation, leaving only the live wire crackle that ignites the crowd as one.
I rise but don’t step forward. Not yet. I linger at the back of the room, watching strangers converge on Jordan, all of them drawn in by her gravity and the aftermath of her words.
She drinks in the attention. Soaks up the adulation. For the first time since I pried her from that tiny apartment, Jordan looks awake.
More than awake. She blazes with energy.
Animated, electric, and utterly sure of herself. Her hands carve the air, punctuating every syllable. Her open face, alive with movement, contains no trace of the wary mask she reserves for me. The black dress, the one that should have staked my claim, now fits her like a second skin.
She owns the outfit now.
My chest tightens.
I crush the sensation. Sentiment is a liability. Respect is only for my betters.
Only strategy matters.
Letting her enjoy the temporary spotlight serves a purpose. Inspires compliance and trust and offers a window I can slip through later.
Nothing but leverage.
Then a fly buzzes into view.
A tall man with gelled blond hair sidles up to Jordan’s shoulder, every detail in his lean silhouette calculated but pretending otherwise. His clothes scream privilege. He flashes her a blinding, hungry smile.
I know his type before he even opens his mouth. The kind who win with words, with practice, with the softest bit of force. They’re the ones you need to watch for.
The charmers and smooth talkers.
I track his approach, instinctively cataloguing. No bulges under those expensive fabrics. No physical risk. The threat lies in the practiced way he parts the circle of men and the deliberate touch on Jordan’s elbow.
She doesn’t shy away.
Doesn’t come back to me.
I’m moving closer before my brain even realizes.
Their conversation drifts over the crowd, needling into my ear like a worm.
“That was brilliant, Jordan.” His voice purrs out a compliment tailored specifically for her. “Your points about energetic blockages were spot on. I’m Mark, by the way. From ‘Mindful Masculinity.’”
I still my twitching fingers.
Jordan smiles, warm and easy and real.
I want to crack his skull against the wall so he’ll never see it again.
“Thank you, Mark.” Her voice is warm. Relaxed. “That means a lot.”
Shit.
I bury the fury with the guilt and whatever else I’m not going to name.
She can smile for whoever she wants. She can talk to anyone she likes. That’s fine.
As long as she gives me what I need and stays within arm’s reach.
That’s all that matters.
I watch the way their heads dip close together, her face bright and so damn eager. I tell myself her freedom is a game I allow, a carefully fenced illusion of normalcy, and that at the end of the day, she’s still mine.
I’m only getting close to collect more intel.
Mark’s fingers brush her arm again and linger. His thumb strokes the fabric of my dress.
Okay, fucker.
That’s enough.
Someone squawks as I barrel through the crowd in a steady, unhurried pace.
Even these people aren’t so obtuse that they don’t sense the shift in pressure, the threat in the air. They drift out of my way, ducking their heads and pretending not to see me.
I reach Jordan just as Mark leans in, his lips close to her hair. She tips her head back, and that dimple flashes.
The one I’ve only seen once before.
And she just met this guy.
I fill the gap at her side.
No touching, not yet.
My presence alone tilts the whole world off its axis.
Their conversation stutters, then dies. The temperature drops.
Mark recoils, the response barely noticeable but satisfying enough. Even though he tries to act cool, his body betrays him.
“That was quite a presentation, wasn’t it?” He tries to rope me in by acting like he isn’t rattled. “Are you Jordan’s colleague?”
I don’t bother answering. My hand finds Jordan’s lower back, my fingers light but impossible to miss. She tenses, every muscle tight. A tremor runs through her shoulders.
My eyes never leave Mark. “Ready.” It’s not a question.
She doesn’t turn, just protests, almost too softly. “Oh, I was just talking—”
“We need to go.” My fingers press, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind.
I don’t give Mark another glance. I spin away, threading Jordan through the horde of bodies. She follows, resistant but pliant.
That happy flush is stripped away, replaced by the cold gleam of steel. Her jaw locks so tightly, I half-expect her teeth to shatter.
She tilts her head toward me, her voice almost lost in the clatter of the crowd. “What are you doing? I was in the middle of a conversation.”
“You were finished.” Simple as that. I angle her toward the exit without breaking my stride.
Fury rolls off her in waves, but she won’t give them a show.
No, she’s too clever to play victim in public. So she glides like a statue with flawless posture, her chin up and every heel strike deliberate.
I rest my hand against her back as we move, pretending not to notice the rigid line of her spine beneath my palm.
She’s burning bright with anger. But I can deal with anger. Anger means engagement and keeping her close.
What I can’t allow is her drifting, or her gaze shifting away.
And I can’t bring myself to articulate why that bothers me.