9. Nathan’s Introduction #2
Gabriel's face fell, but he nodded. "Of course. I'll wait here. Take your time."
I walked out of the dining room and through the foyer, my heels clicking on the marble, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I needed to move, to breathe, to put distance between myself and the weight of Nathan's attention.
The mansion was a labyrinth—hallways that led to other hallways, rooms that opened into other rooms. I turned left, then right, then left again, and found myself in a library.
It was beautiful. Walls of books, floor to ceiling, with a rolling ladder that slid along a brass rail.
A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting warm light over leather armchairs and a desk that looked like it belonged in a museum.
The windows faced the garden, and through the glass I could see Gabriel standing by the hedge, waiting for me.
I pressed my forehead against the cold window and closed my eyes.
"You have a habit of wandering into places you don't belong."
I didn't turn around. I didn't need to. I could feel him behind me—the warmth of his body, the weight of his presence, the familiar scent of cologne and something darker.
"My father doesn't bring women here," Nathan said, his voice low, almost gentle. "My brother doesn't kiss strangers. You've got them both wrapped around your finger in a month. What's your game?"
I opened my eyes. Gabriel was still standing in the garden, alone, his breath fogging the air. I watched him for a moment—the way he shoved his hands into his pockets, the way he looked up at the sky like he was searching for something.
"I'm not playing a game," I said. "Just trying to survive."
"Survive." Nathan laughed—a soft, incredulous sound. He moved closer, and I could feel the heat of him at my back, close enough that if I leaned back, I'd touch his chest. "You don't belong here, Monika. You're soft. You're good. This place eats good girls for breakfast."
I turned around.
He was closer than I expected—inches away, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the way his lips curved in that beautiful, terrible smile.
I should have stepped back. I should have put the window between us, the desk, the armchair, anything.
But I didn't.
"Maybe I'm not that good."
The words came out before I could stop them. They hung in the air between us, daring and dangerous, and I watched Nathan's face change. The smile faded. Something else took its place—something darker, hungrier, something that looked like respect.
"Maybe you're not," he said.
His hand came up. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers brushed my collarbone—just a touch, light as a feather, tracing the ridge of bone from one shoulder to the other. I shivered. I couldn't help it. His touch was cold and warm at the same time, electric in a way that made my stomach clench.
"You shiver," he said. "That's interesting."
"It's cold in here."
"It's not cold." He traced my collarbone again, and this time I felt it everywhere—in my throat, in my chest, in the places I'd been pretending didn't exist. "You're not afraid of my father. You're not afraid of my brother. But you're afraid of me. And you should be."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You're trembling."
"Your hands are cold."
He laughed—a real laugh this time, surprised and genuine. "You're not like the others."
"What others?"
"The ones who come here. The ones who want something.
They're always so careful, so measured, so desperate to please.
But you—" He dropped his hand, stepped back, and the space between us felt like a wound.
"You don't want to please anyone. You just want to survive. That's refreshing. And dangerous."
"Dangerous for who?"
"For you." He walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold to look back at me. His eyes were dark now, the whiskey light gone, replaced by something that looked like hunger. "We'll see how long you last."
"We'll see."
He smiled. It was the first real smile he'd given me—not charming, not calculated, just... human. Almost kind.
I stood in the library for a long time after he left.
My hand drifted to my collarbone, to the place where his fingers had traced the bone. The skin was still warm. Still tingling. I pressed my palm against it, trying to press the feeling away, but it wouldn't go.
Nathan Mire was dangerous. I'd known that from the moment I saw him. But I hadn't known how dangerous—hadn't known that his touch would feel like that, like a warning and an invitation all at once.
Gabriel was sweet. Gabriel was safe. Gabriel kissed me like I was something precious, something to be protected.
Nathan was none of those things. Nathan looked at me like I was something to be consumed. And the worst part—the part I couldn't stop thinking about—was that some part of me wanted to be consumed.
I pressed my forehead against the window again. Gabriel was gone now, the garden empty, the snow beginning to fall in soft, silent flakes.
What was I doing here?
What was I becoming?
I didn't have answers. I only had questions, and the ghost of Nathan's fingers on my collarbone, and the memory of Gabriel's lips on mine.
Two brothers. One father. And me, trapped in the middle, trying to survive.
I walked out of the library and into the foyer. Viktor was waiting by the door, holding my coat. He didn't ask where I'd been. He didn't ask why my cheeks were flushed or why my hands were shaking. He just helped me into my coat and opened the door, and the cold air hit my face like a slap.
The car was warm. The drive was silent. I stared out the window at the city lights and tried to remember how to breathe.
By the time I got home, my hands had stopped shaking.
But the feeling of Nathan's touch was still there, burning on my skin like a brand.
I didn't sleep that night either.