Chapter 39
Jordan
I sit cross-legged on my threadbare rug.
With my spine straight, I rest my open palms on my knees.
The salt lamps are gone, chilled and unplugged, tucked in the closet like pieces of a life I barely decipher. Sunlight streams through the streak-free windows. Dust motes hang in the air, shimmering and tumbling in a dance.
The sight is almost beautiful if you squint.
My apartment is still a shithole. The paint peels in long, curling strips. The ancient, aching pipes whine and moan. Even on a good day, the shower can’t be bothered to run anything but lukewarm.
But it’s my shithole.
Not a sterile penthouse with a pristine, lifeless shine bought and paid for by a man who thought he could fob me off with high thread count sheets, room service, and state-of-the-art podcast equipment.
As if I didn’t recognize a cage, no matter how fancily my name is stenciled on the mail slot. Every surface still belonged to him.
I inhale and push my heels down into the floor, slowly rising into a warrior pose.
The strain sets my whole body trembling.
My muscles threaten to rebel. I breathe through the tension, concentrating on the pull, the burn, the moment.
Centering myself here, on this battered rug, in this battered room.
I am strong. I am focused.
I. Am. Furious.
Ugh. Yoga’s not helping.
Nothing is.
Ever since I walked out of that hotel late last night, the same three emotions keep playing on repeat.
Raw, howling anger, hurt so deep I’m not sure the knot in my stomach will ever unravel, and a stubborn, unfamiliar pride that simmers like the pilot light of a stove.
I left the pro-grade podcast setup, the brand-new laptop, the complimentary champagne, and the view behind. Walked out, caught the train home, and climbed the stairs to my own door like I was coming back to the only thing that had ever been real.
And I guess I was leaving behind a world and people I had no place among.
The Russian mafia. Not Italian like in the movies. I’d tangled myself up with the actual Russian mob. And their enforcer.
I shift, my balance shaking as I stretch into the triangle pose. My ankle wobbles, but I close my eyes and seek the quiet space that sometimes comes with extensive practice.
Instead of my happy blank place, my mind clings to Kirill.
His hands in my hair. The hard, determined set of his jaw when he’s thinking. The way his fingers circled my wrist, not to hurt, but to keep me steady. The rough scrape of his low voice saying my name.
Jordan.
The memory comes slicing through the meditation, through every brittle attempt at stillness.
Prize in hand, soaked to the bone, but still alive, I stood beside him, our lungs burning, our hearts rattling in our chests. For one brutal second, I’d felt the click. The us. The ignition of a team. Partners. I thought we were—
No!
I open my eyes and lose control of my breathing. The pose collapses.
This isn’t working.
Because I can’t stop thinking of that stupid shark.
I swear he saw me. Not just as a shadow at his side or a useful tool, but really saw me. Jordan. Not Alistair’s daughter. Or heir to the Hearst fortune.
But he proved me wrong.
I was only a problem, a pesky knot. When the dust settled and he had what he wanted, he cut me out. Efficiently. Almost elegantly.
He paid me off like a lover who’d lingered too long. Might as well have tossed money on the dresser on his way out.
He didn’t kill me. A mercy, I guess, for someone like him. But the message was crystal clear.
He didn’t want me.
Fine. I don’t want him either.
The sour lie sticks on my tongue.
I swallow down the taste. Out of sight, out of mind. I blow my breath out through my nose, raise my arms, and stretch toward the ceiling. Crown chakra to the skies. Mountain pose. Beneath the calm exterior, my muscles scream, still bruised from that night at my mother’s house.
Running. Fighting. Everything that came after.
And the wonderful things that came before. In the hotel…
My core perks up at those memories, but that thrill is far from useful at the moment.
I wobble, my breath shaking.
I’m trying to tell that spark to go back to sleep, that there’s nothing to be excited about, when a sound registers in the hall outside.
Slow, certain footsteps. A rhythm I’ve memorized.
My pulse doesn’t just skip. It stops.
Cold spreads like a toxin, freezing every nerve ending.
No. Not possible.
Then tiny clinks and scrapes, the metallic staccato of someone picking my lock. I could reach for my phone. Run, scream, do anything useful.
But I wait.
I know that cadence like I know the beat of my own heart.
My door swings open.
Kirill fills the frame like he’s staking a claim on the threshold. He wears a black coat over his dress shirt, and a dribble of blood stains the white fabric.
Instead of entering, he looms, haloed by the light he’s blocking. His eyes calculate and weigh everything in cold silence.
My heart knots up, the way muscle tenses before a blow.
I won’t let him get close enough to hurt me again.
I scramble to my feet, the bare soles whispering against the hardwood. I need space. Space is how I breathe and think.
“How did you find me?” The question comes out sharp as broken glass, every edge of my hurt on display.
“This is your apartment. I just came back to where I found you the first time rather than the nice place where I left you.” He glances at my face, then the floor, then back at me. His eyes narrow. “Are you an idiot? That room was nine hundred dollars a night. Why are you here?”
It’s such a Kirill answer that, for a split second, I want to laugh. No greeting or apology. Just irritation because I won’t stay where he puts me.
As if I’m a soulless metal statue in one of the houses he trapped me in.
“I don’t do half-lives anymore.” I carve the words out of ice so he’ll understand them better.
Strip away the wellness-guru veneer and expose the steel beneath.
“I live fully, or I don’t live at all. And stop breaking into my apartment.
It’s rude. Learn to knock like a human. Just curl your fin up and…
” I mimic knocking, in case he’s still not sure. “Or are you here to kill me?”
He rolls his eyes—actually rolls them—like I’m the difficult one.
For a second, he reminds me of that night in the hotel when he let the mask slip. Then he tries to barge in.
I block his path, refusing to let him bulldoze through me the way he bulldozed through my life.
He stops, and his eyes flash. Huffing out a breath, he glares at the floor before returning his focus to me. “Can I come in?” His voice has the texture of gravel, like the words hurt his mouth.
Huh. That’s different.
He didn’t ask last time. He didn’t bother with permission or even the idea of courtesy, just shoved his way in and detonated my world.
The man facing me now isn’t the same as the one who abducted me and rewrote my reality. The intensity still lives, the danger, but the atmosphere feels…different. Changed. I don’t understand how yet.
I fold my arms. “I haven’t decided. Why are you here?”
His eyes meet mine. And for the first time, I see him falter. He doesn’t know his next move, and he knows I know that. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then speaks.
“I can get you a better place. Upper East Side. Doorman. Views. Or anywhere you want. A car. Whatever you need.” The words have a recited quality, as if he’s pushing them out on cue.
“Bank account. Enough money that you never have to worry. Vacations. Nice things. You could see that friend of yours whenever you wanted—”
I raise my hand to cut him off.
The mention of Ashley only sharpens the sting. He’s mapped every bit of my life and thinks he can buy his way back in.
“Those aren’t even sentences, let alone answers. Just a list of things you can purchase. Are you here to buy me things, Kirill? Or are you here for me?”
Kirill stares, flat and unblinking, shark-like. But then…he softens. In a slow collapse, the tension drains from his face and the rigid set of his muscles loosens all at once. For a beat, his eyes close. When they reopen, they’re sharp and clear.
“I’m here for you.”
My heart skids and vaults. I don’t move. I have no idea what to say.
He drags a hand across his mouth.
Is he…nervous?
For him, that one gesture might as well be writing in the clouds.
I’ve never seen him nervous. Maybe I should stay silent more often, if this is what it gets me.
He shifts, his eyes darting away. “I was wrong.”
Holy shit, that was fast.
So much depth lies buried in those words. A dense knot of truth, impossible to unravel.
But Kirill, who has never known what to say, who fights with actions and silence, still said them and managed to imbue them with so many meanings. Impressive for such a stoic.
A spark—half defiance and half survival instinct—rises in me. “What does that mean?”
He slouches, pressing his shoulder to the doorframe, like a heavy weight just landed on him. “I fucked up. We’re…” He stalls, searching, “…a team. You’re…”
I brace myself, expecting easy lines like, “Mine.” “Beautiful.” The things men say when they want to own you.
Inhaling a deep breath, he straightens and stares directly at me. “…my partner.”
All the fight rushes out of me. For a split second, I can’t speak or breathe. Every clever line I’d rehearsed to hurt him evaporates.
I move over and gesture him inside.
Those were really good words. Damn him.
If he ever tried to say more, he’d probably choke.
But what are words, really?
I’ve spent my adult life selling them, shaping them into whatever people wanted to hear. Words are air. Words are empty rooms. They mean nothing without the actions to support them.
Even when he’s been a monster, Kirill is the only real thing I’ve ever known. He can’t give speeches. I’ll have to learn to live with that if this thing is going to work.
But he can take action.
That’s how I’ll get him to prove himself.