Chapter 28 Keira
KERIA
It's four in the damn morning, and I can't sleep.
I've tried.
I've flipped the pillow, punched it, buried myself under the duvet, and counted backward from a hundred. Nothing.
My brain won't shut up. Too much static. I'm thinking about the gala today, about the Phantom King, about my father lying in some hospital bed in Germany with tubes keeping him alive.
About the fact that no one will tell me anything.
Ugh.
I kick off the blankets and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and I put on some socks and walk out into the hallway and down the stairs.
I wrap my arms around myself and follow the faint smell of coffee into the kitchen.
Octavian stands at the counter wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, pouring steaming coffee into a mug like he's the only person awake in the world.
The overhead light casts shadows across the lines of his back muscles, the tattoos that tell stories he's never shared.
He doesn't turn around, but his voice cuts through the quiet. "What are you doing up?"
I freeze in the doorway. "How did you—"
"Heard you on the stairs." He glances over his shoulder, his dark eyes meeting mine. "You were loud."
"I was not loud. I even tiptoed"
He smiles, turning back to the coffee pot. "Like an elephant."
I lean against the wall. "So why are you up drinking coffee at four a.m.?"
"It's what time I get up." He pours a second mug without asking if I want one. "I like to stand over you for a few hours before you wake up."
My stomach flips. "What?"
He sets the pot down. "Kidding."
I off the wall and take a seat at the island. "Okay. I like the recent influx of jokes from you, even if they are kinda creepy. We'll work on it."
He hands me the second mug and takes a seat across from me. "Why are you up?"
I take the cup, wrapping both hands around it and it instantly warms me.
I shrug, staring into the coffee. "I… just. It's everything. The gala this evening. My dad, which everyone's just leaving me in the fucking dark about." I rub my forehead, the usual tape playing in my head. "So, anyway, I was thinking. I feel like I don't know anything about you."
He exhales slowly, watching me over the rim of his mug. "There's nothing to know."
"Says the quiet, mysterious man. You know that makes us women want to know everything about you, right?"
He smiles, just barely, and takes a sip of coffee.
"You don't do that much, you know?" I say.
"What?"
"Smile."
He shrugs, his gaze dropping to his mug. "Too focused, I guess."
The kitchen falls silent, and I watch him, studying the way his jaw tightens when he drinks, the way his fingers curl around the ceramic like he's holding something fragile.
"Tell me about your family," I say.
His eyes lift to mine. "You mean my brother?"
Embarrassment floods my face. "What? No! I didn't mean that."
He waves it off. "It's okay. I get it," he says and looks down at his arm. "Dead brother's face tattooed on me, it raises questions."
"Well…" I shrug, guilt twisting with my curiosity. "I mean, yeah. But you don't have to."
"I was sixteen," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Thought I was twenty-five. Figured I knew the whole world. I started working for my family, the Ionescus. They're like your family but in Romania. Uncle and cousins on my mom's side."
He pauses, looking down at his cup.
"One night I was outside a club to pick up some drugs, and my younger brother showed up looking for me. I was so mad. I told him to leave. He begged me to stay. I said okay."
His voice doesn't waver. It doesn't crack. But something in his eyes shifts, something dark and hollow.
"It was the first night I ever heard what grenades sound like. It was a hit meant for the Ionescu family, but they weren't there. Me and my brother were… so yeah."
My throat tightens. I reach across the table without thinking, grabbing his hand, my fingers wrapping around his. "Octavian. I'm sorry."
His hand is warm, and for a second he doesn't move. Then his fingers curl slightly, just enough to acknowledge the touch.
"It's okay," he says, shrugging with one shoulder. "I mean, it's not, but you know."
I squeeze his hand tighter, my thumb brushing over his knuckles.
"Anyway, after that, I joined the Romanian special forces. Got out, started protecting things, people. Earned a bit of a reputation. The Ionescus took care of me, out of guilt or respect, who knows, but I made the best life I could."
He stops and looks around the room like it just occurred to him where he is. "And now I'm sitting in your kitchen."
I suddenly realize I'm still holding his hand.
I pull back slowly, even though my fingers don't want to let go.
"I don't know too much about your parents, but I know it's hard when they're sick. Both mine are dead, but if there's anything I can do," he says and takes a sip of coffee, "I'm here."
I want to know more about him, but I don't want to push, so I smile. "Thank you. That's very sweet."
"Now, about this party thing, don't worry," he says, his voice shifting back to business. "I'll be with you every second."
"Every second?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes."
"What if I have to pee?"
His lips twitch. "I'll wait outside the door."
"I don't think the other women in the bathroom would like that."
"Then they can leave."
I laugh despite myself, shaking my head.
"What's your biggest worry?" he asks.
"You mean besides dying?" I give a brittle laugh.
"You won't," he says, his voice firm. "Like I said to your brothers. The party's too big. They need to control things. Plus, with those politicians going, they'll have security too. Nothing's happening there."
I tilt my head, challenging. "You sure about that? Bet my life on it?"
He doesn't hesitate. "I'd bet mine too."
We stare at each other across the table, the air between us thickening. The coffee grows cold in my hands, but I don't care. I can't look away from him, from the certainty in his eyes, the quiet strength radiating off him like heat.
"Actually, in your spirit of being open with me…
" I pause, biting my lip. "I'm worried that I won't be able to actually find out anything.
I mean, I haven't yet. And I'm scared I'm not strong enough for whatever I'll have to do.
I may act tough, but newsflash, I'm still a twenty-five-year-old girl at the end of the day, playing a man's game. This whole mafia world we're in."
"Twenty-five? Wow," he says.
I frown. "What's wrong with that? How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"Okay, old man." I smile. "Should I get you a wheelchair for the gala?"
"Ha. Ha." But he laughs, different than before. Lighter. It crinkles the corners of his eyes, softens the hard lines of his face. It's cute.
"But seriously," he says, his laughter fading. "Gaining intel takes time. And, for the record, you're the strongest person I've ever guarded. You'll be alright, Keira."
Heat floods my cheeks. "You think so?"
"Yes," he says, leaning forward, his gaze never leaving mine. "Look how much intel you just gained on me. You're basically becoming a pro.”
I smile. There's something different about him. About us. I feel it in the way he looks at me, the way his voice softens when he says my name, the way his hand felt wrapped around mine.
I get so wrapped up in the moment, my bodyguard claiming my safety, so sure he'll do whatever it takes to keep me alive, that I move before my brain catches up.
I stand, rounding the table.
Octavian looks up, confusion flickering across his face. "Keira—"
I cup his jaw, tilting his face up, and kiss him.
His lips are warm, soft, and for half a second he freezes. Then his hand comes up, gripping my waist, pulling me closer as he stands. The chair scrapes against the floor as his other hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back.
The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against mine, and I gasp into his mouth.
When I pull back, my breath is ragged, my heart pounding. I look up at him, waiting to see what he'll do.
He doesn't leave. He doesn't pull away.
He leans in, cupping my face with both hands, and steals my breath all over again.
I know exactly where this is heading, and it's the only thing I crave.