Chapter 18
Jordan
He pulls me through the hotel corridor, his iron grip locking around my wrist as soon as we’re out of sight. Not tight enough to bruise, but tight enough to direct, to own.
Plush carpet eats the sound of our passage, the still life paintings hanging on the walls the only witnesses to my outrage. The hallway unspools ahead in endless beige, swallowing the taste of my victory with every forced step.
Minutes ago, I was a woman seizing her moment, reshaping his attempt at dominance into my unique edge, my win.
The black dress that I transformed into armor on stage now squeezes my shoulders and cages my ribs, the neckline a collar I can’t tug loose. Every compliment, each handshake, all the cards pressed into my hand, the possibilities… They vanish behind us.
He’s dragging me back down into the cell he controls.
Refusal sears my spine, but I won’t give any gawkers a show.
So I match his pace—surpass it, even—with my chin up, as my high-heeled strides radiate rage. He can’t haul me away if he’s struggling to keep up.
But the asshole doesn’t struggle. He just lengthens his own stride.
And normally I wouldn’t want to call someone an asshole, but…
He deserves the insult.
When we reach the room, my shaky hands fumble with the key card because anger makes me clumsy.
The lock blinks red.
I try again, as if swiping harder will fix things.
“Let me.” He reaches around me.
I jerk my hand away from his. “I can manage a lock.” I jam the card in with a vengeance. This time, the latch clicks. “Let go of me.” I yank my other arm free the instant we cross the threshold, rubbing at my wrist despite the lack of pain.
Kirill doesn’t spare me another glance. He locks my laptop and bag in the room’s safe and sweeps the room with cold efficiency, checking the closet and bathroom, then flinging back the white shower curtain.
He’s more mechanism than man, scanning for threats or traps or some ghost of escape, cataloguing every corner in this anonymous hotel suite.
Of course there’s a single king-size bed.
He’ll just have to sleep on the floor. Or the leather ottoman next to the empty desk and basic black office chair set up in front of the single window. He can curl up like a dog.
The space is twice the size of my entire apartment, with a real view of the city. Bland, but comfortable, with light brown walls and that odd multicolored carpet that hides stains and secrets.
Good enough for me.
I kick off my heels, feet aching.
“Was that a game to you?” His back is to me as he tests the window latch. “In there. On the stage. Were you trying to piss me off?”
The nerve.
“Piss you off? Piss you off?” I spin away before I say something I’ll regret. Bad energy out. Good energy in. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
We both know it’s a bald lie. Of course I knew he would take my presentation badly.
I used this black dress—the one he picked specifically to mark me as his—and transformed it into my advantage.
The dress became my argument, my rebellion. A prop in my talk about trauma. His chain, mixed with my words, morphed into a key.
And that felt right. More than right. For the first time since he spawned into my life, I could breathe.
I sense movement and pivot to find him studying me, his face carved in ice, the anger disciplined yet feral. He closes the gap between us in three strides, forcing me to meet his burning-cold gaze.
“I never should have let you come.”
The implication—that my actions are his to permit or deny, that my presence is a gift or a mistake he could retract—strips a fresh layer off my self-control.
I refuse to shrink, to give him that satisfaction. “Then I would have run away again to get here.”
His brow furrows, confusion darkening his expression. “Straight into danger?”
I glare, crossing my arms over my chest. “If I had to.”
“Why?” His genuine bafflement only sharpens the edge of my fury.
He can’t see, can’t fathom, can’t widen his vision to include my promises, my motivations, or my life outside the tight circle of his mission. Everything else is static.
“Because I’m honest, and I made a promise. Something you would never understand since you’re broken inside.” I punctuate the accusation with a shove to his chest. The act is futile against his stone wall of a torso, but the sharp admonition lands.
His face blanks out as the rage drains, leaving nothing.
You’re broken inside.
Well, shit.
I shouldn’t have said that. Not so bluntly. I already want to eat my words.
No matter what, I know better than to call someone out like that. Karma always comes back threefold.
But taking it back would be a surrender, a loss. And I’m not giving in just yet.
The thick silence spirals.
He just gazes at me, searching, the space between us raw and unguarded.
His hand twitches, the suggestion of motion electric with anticipation and dread. For a moment, I think he’ll touch me.
And I hope he does.
A knock stops us both.
Three raps, heavy and measured, vibrate the door and break the spell, snapping us back to the real world.
Kirill transforms in an instant. Cold focus replaces his tentative vulnerability, his shoulders squared and his eyes devoid of heat. The monster. The professional. The killer. Every trace of softness has disappeared.
The change terrifies me, but I don’t want to look away.
“Miss Thorne?” A deep male voice calls through the door. “I’m Detective Colvin. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The cops!
Desperate and wild-eyed, I glance at Kirill.
What the fuck do I do?
Even if I seek help from the police, I’ll likely be back in Kirill’s hold before the end of the night.
Or maybe with someone worse.
Besides…my anger aside, I know where I’m meant to be.
Destiny placed me here, in this moment, with Kirill.
And I’m not walking away from fate.
Kirill heads for the door, but not straight-on. He angles his body to the side as he leans over to the peephole. One quick verification, then a nod.
It’s real.
A cop lingers outside my hotel room.
Why? He’s going to mess up everything. If the conference organizers get wind of this…
The rumors will run rampant.
I step toward the door. Kirill’s stare, heavy and resolute, weighs on the back of my head. “About what?” I force the question out, my voice steady despite my racing mind. Did he find out about Kirill? The dead men in the alley? My abduction?
“There was a disturbance a week or so ago near your apartment.” The detective’s deceptively casual tone has teeth, which instantly raises my hackles.
“I’ve been checking in with residents who live nearby.
But you were never home.” He pauses, anticipating my response, but I have no idea what to say.
“I learned you’d be presenting here, so I came. Can we speak for a moment?”
Kirill and I lock eyes.
Time stretches, every tick of the clock a held breath, every second an unmade decision. I wait for him to signal. To do anything.
He does, but not in the way I expect. He moves with soundless precision, sliding against the wall where the door opens up. He stands still, nonchalant on the surface. Relaxed.
But his eyes stay on me, flat and empty and cold as glass.
I glimpse no panic. No anger.
Nothing but calculation.
The message is as clear as a knife to my throat.
Don’t fuck this up. Make a sound I don’t like, and I’ll take care of the detective and you.
Despite my earlier bravado, this is still the same man who dragged me out of my apartment. The one who threatened Ashley. Who kills without blinking.
The Kirill who patched my wounds, who let me go to my conference, who showed flickers of something softer, is gone. Buried.
“Miss Thorne?” The detective’s voice gets closer to the door.
I have a choice. I could open the door, expose Kirill, and be saved, temporarily, at least.
Saved. The word twists in my chest, sticky and complicated. From what? From the man who kidnapped me, yes. But the same man pulled me from that taxi and killed to keep me alive. He’s hurt me, owned me, but also looked at me like I mattered. Like I was real.
And what does being “saved” mean?
My name in police files. The promise of questions. The end of everything I’ve tried to build. Headlines. My face everywhere.
And Ashley. What would happen to my friend if I betrayed Kirill?
No time to plan, to weigh, to hope for some neat answer. Every heartbeat yanks suspicion closer.
I rake my fingers through my hair and force myself to move. Just before the door swings open, I lock a bright smile on my face and pray it’s enough.