Chapter 13 - Rodion
Kirill arrived at six.
I met him in the foyer, grateful for the distraction. The past hour had been an exercise in discipline—coordinating security with Yegor, fielding calls from Gleb in Chicago, doing everything I could to avoid thinking about the woman three rooms away and the way her mouth had felt against mine.
It wasn't working.
"Brother." Kirill embraced me briefly, that stiff tolerance he always showed for physical affection. "You look like hell."
"Thank you. Your support means everything."
"I'm not here to support. I'm here to assess." He stepped back, those pale eyes sweeping the penthouse, cataloging exits and sight lines with the automatic efficiency of a man who never stopped calculating threats. "Where is she?"
"Guest room. I told her to stay there until we had a better handle on the situation."
"And she listened?"
"Surprisingly, yes."
Something flickered in his expression—not quite amusement, but close. "That won't last."
"Probably not."
He moved through the penthouse, asking questions, checking security measures, speaking briefly with Yegor about patrol rotations and surveillance coverage. I watched him work and tried to focus on the tactical details, tried to keep my mind on the threat outside rather than the complication inside.
It still wasn't working.
"You're distracted," Kirill said, appearing at my elbow.
"We're under threat. Of course I'm distracted."
"That's not what I mean." He studied me with that unnerving stillness, the kind that made most people uncomfortable. I'd grown up with it, learned to tolerate it, but it still made me want to look away. "Something happened. Since we spoke this morning."
"Nothing happened."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—"
"Your jaw is tight. Your shoulders are raised. You've checked the hallway toward the guest room four times in the last ten minutes." He tilted his head slightly. "You kissed her."
I stared at him. "How could you possibly—"
"I didn't know. I suspected. Now I know." The ghost of something that might have been satisfaction crossed his face. "You confirmed it."
"That's a dirty trick."
"It's an effective trick. There's a difference."
I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself, with him, with the entire situation. "It was a mistake. It happened in the heat of an argument. It won't happen again."
"Why not?"
"Because we're in the middle of a crisis. Because she was my therapist. Because she's only married to me to avoid being sold to the Petrovics." I shook my head. "Take your pick."
"Those are reasons it's complicated. They're not reasons it won't happen again."
"Kirill—"
"I'm not judging." He held up a hand. "I'm observing. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." He was quiet for a moment, his pale eyes distant. "I've never seen you like this. With any woman. You're usually... controlled. Detached. This is different."
"I don't know what this is."
"That's obvious." He almost smiled. "But you should figure it out. Uncertainty is a vulnerability. And right now, you can't afford vulnerabilities."
He moved away before I could respond, already shifting back into tactical mode, speaking with Yegor about something I couldn't hear. I stood alone in the hallway and thought about what he'd said.
Uncertainty is a vulnerability.
He wasn't wrong. I didn't know what I felt for Keira—didn't know if what had happened between us was real or just the product of proximity and stress and the strange intimacy of our circumstances.
I didn't know if she felt anything for me beyond confusion and obligation.
I didn't know what I wanted from her, or what I was willing to risk to get it.
All I knew was that I couldn't stop thinking about her. And that was dangerous in ways I was only beginning to understand.
I found Kirill in the study twenty minutes later, reviewing security reports on a tablet. He looked up when I entered.
"Everything's in place," he said. "Yegor's men are solid. The building is secure. If the Petrovics try anything tonight, we'll know about it long before they reach us."
"Good."
"I'm going to get some rest. I have calls to make in the morning—people who might have information about Petrovic movements." He set down the tablet and stood. "You should rest too."
"I will."
"Liar." But there was no judgment in his voice. "Go talk to her, Rodion. Whatever happened between you—ignoring it won't make it go away."
He left before I could argue. I stood in the empty study and stared at the door he'd walked through, knowing he was right.
Ignoring it wouldn't make it go away.
I found her in the kitchen.
She was standing at the counter, a cup of tea cradled in her hands, staring out the window at the city lights. She'd changed clothes—something soft and loose, the kind of thing you wore when you weren't expecting to see anyone. Her hair was down, falling in waves around her shoulders.
She looked tired. Beautiful. Completely unreachable.
"I thought you were staying in your room," I said.
She didn't turn around. "I needed tea. I assumed that was allowed."
"Everything is allowed. This is your home now, too."
"Is it?"
I moved into the kitchen, keeping the island between us, giving her space.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"Fine."
"You don't look fine."
"Neither do you." She finally turned, and I saw the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw. "Your brother is here."
"Kirill. Yes."
"He's... intense."
"That's one word for it."
"He looked at me like he was calculating whether I was a threat or an asset."
"He looks at everyone like that. It's not personal."
"Somehow that doesn't make it better."
"He takes time to warm up. Years, usually. Decades, sometimes." I moved to the cabinet, pulled out a glass. "Do you mind if I join you?"
She hesitated, and I saw the war playing out behind her eyes. The desire for solitude versus the pull of company. The need to maintain distance versus something else she wasn't ready to name.
"It's your kitchen," she said finally.
"It's our kitchen. That's the point."
I poured myself water instead of vodka. I wanted a clear head for this conversation, whatever it turned out to be.
She turned back to the window, and silence fell between us. I watched her profile, the graceful line of her neck, the way she held the cup like it was the only thing keeping her anchored.
"About earlier," I started.
"Don't."
"We should talk about it."
"Why?" She turned to face me, and her expression was carefully blank. "It happened. It was a mistake. We were both emotional; the situation was intense. It doesn't have to mean anything."
"What if it did mean something?"
"Then we'd have an even bigger problem than we already do."
She was right. I knew she was right. But some stubborn part of me refused to accept it.
"You kissed me back," I said.
"I know."
"You wanted it."
"I know that too." She set down her cup, her movements precise and controlled. "That doesn't mean it was a good idea. That doesn't mean we should do it again."
"I'm not saying we should do it again. I'm saying we should acknowledge what it was."
"And what was it?"
The question stopped me. I'd been so focused on the fact that it happened, I hadn't really considered what it meant. What did I want it to mean?
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I know it wasn't nothing."
Something shifted in her expression. A crack in the armor, quickly sealed. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."
"Am I?"
"Yes. We have a simple arrangement. Protection in exchange for marriage. Anything beyond that complicates things."
"Things are already complicated."
"They don't have to be more complicated."
I moved around the island, closing the distance between us. She didn't back away, but I saw her tense, her hands gripping the edge of the counter behind her.
"Tell me you felt nothing," I said. "Tell me that kiss was just adrenaline and proximity and stress. Tell me that, and I'll drop it. We'll never speak of it again."
She looked up at me, and I saw the conflict in her eyes. The war between what she wanted and what she thought she should want.
"I can't tell you that," she said quietly.
"Then stop pretending this is simple."
"It has to be simple. If it's not simple, I don't know how to handle it."
"Maybe you don't have to handle it alone."
"I've always handled things alone. That's how I survive."
"That's how you've survived. Past tense." I reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. My fingers brushed her jaw, the lightest touch, and I felt her breath catch. "You're not alone anymore. Whether you want to be or not."
"That's what scares me."
"I know."
We stood there, inches apart, the air between us thick with everything we weren't saying. I wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to pull her against me and finish what we'd started, consequences be damned.
But I didn't. Because she wasn't ready. And I wasn't going to push her somewhere she didn't want to go.
"I should go back to my room," she said.
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I should." She stepped away from the counter, away from me, and I felt the distance like a physical loss. "Thank you. For checking on me."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I wanted to." She paused at the doorway, looking back at me. "For what it's worth—I don't regret it. The kiss. I don't understand it, and I don't know what it means, but I don't regret it."
"Neither do I."
She nodded once, then disappeared into the hallway. I listened to her footsteps recede, the soft click of her door closing, and then I was alone with the silence and the city lights and the memory of her face when she'd admitted she'd felt something too.
I stayed in the kitchen for a long time, thinking.
Kirill was right. Uncertainty was a vulnerability. I couldn't afford to be distracted, couldn't afford to let my feelings for Keira—whatever they were—compromise my judgment or cloud my decisions.
But I couldn't pretend they didn't exist either. That kiss had changed something. Shifted the ground beneath us in ways I was only beginning to understand.
She'd said she didn't regret it. That was something. A starting point. A foundation to build on, maybe, if we lived long enough to try.
I rinsed my glass and set it in the sink, my movements automatic while my mind churned.
Three weeks ago, I'd walked into her office expecting nothing more than a way to quiet the noise in my head long enough to sleep.
I'd found something else entirely. Someone who saw through the performance.
Someone who asked questions no one else bothered to ask.
Someone who made me want to answer honestly, even when the truth was ugly.
And now she was my wife. Living in my home. Sleeping three rooms away while I stood in my kitchen trying to untangle feelings I'd spent my entire adult life avoiding.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
I walked to the window and looked out at the city. Somewhere out there, the Petrovics were planning their next move. Cormac was nursing his wounded pride. Branko was fantasizing about the woman he thought he owed.
They could plan all they wanted. They weren't getting her.
Not because she was a strategic asset. Not because the marriage protected our interests. Not because walking away would make me look weak.
Because she was Keira. Because she'd looked at me across a therapy office and seen something worth examining. Because when she kissed me, I'd felt more present than I had in years. More real.
Because I was starting to realize that protecting her wasn't just a duty or an obligation.
It was something I wanted. Something that mattered in a way I wasn't ready to examine too closely.
My phone buzzed. Yegor, with an update on the security rotation. I read it, responded, and forced myself to focus on the threats that were tangible and immediate.
The Petrovics would make their move eventually. When they did, I'd be ready.
But tonight, in the quiet of my penthouse with Keira sleeping down the hall and my brother keeping watch and the city spread out below me like a promise I wasn't sure I believed anymore, I let myself feel something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
Fragile, uncertain, probably foolish. But there.
I finished my water and went to bed, knowing I wouldn't sleep, knowing I'd lie awake thinking about her, knowing tomorrow would bring more danger and more complications and more reasons why this was a terrible idea.
I didn't care.
Some terrible ideas were worth pursuing.