Chapter 7 ARTAN
ARTAN
The food is exceptional.
I take another bite. The chicken is tender, practically dissolving against my tongue. Savory. Complex. The kind of flavor that builds with each bite.
Luan is eating with equal focus. His fork moves steadily from plate to mouth. No hesitation. No fumbling. No awkward pause while he searches for the next bite or tries to orient himself to where the food is on the plate.
The dish is designed for ease. Small pieces of chicken, already cut. Fork-friendly orzo that doesn't require precision or coordination. Nothing that needs a knife. Nothing that demands visual accuracy.
Lily must have done that deliberately. I'm certain of it.
That says something about her. Something important. Something that settles warm in my chest despite my best efforts to ignore it.
It also reminds me of this morning. Of the moment in the entryway when I put my hand on her shoulder.
I shouldn't have done that.
She was spiraling. Panicking. Words tumbling out too fast, apologies stacking on top of apologies for things that weren't her fault. Her voice pitched high with anxiety. Her hands shaking as she clutched her phone.
And I wanted to calm her. Needed to calm her. The distress in her voice felt wrong. Physically uncomfortable. Like nails scraping against something raw and exposed inside my chest.
So I touched her.
My hand on her shoulder. Firm. Steady. Grounding.
And my body reacted in ways I haven't felt in years.
Heat. Immediate and undeniable. Spreading from my palm through my arm and into my chest. Awareness of every point of contact.
The softness of her shoulder under my palm.
The warmth of her skin bleeding through the thin fabric of her shirt.
The delicate bone structure beneath. How small she felt. How breakable.
She froze under my touch. Went completely still. Her breathing changed, becoming shallower, faster. And then she looked up at me.
Those wide blue eyes. Clear as glass. Pupils dilating slightly as she met my gaze.
I felt that look everywhere. In my chest. In my stomach. Lower.
It's been a long time since I felt that kind of pull toward someone. That kind of visceral, physical want that bypasses thought entirely and goes straight to the body.
Not since Mira. Not since I was young and stupid enough to believe I deserved something good.
And that's a problem. A serious one.
I shouldn't have touched her. Shouldn't let myself think about her that way. I'm not worthy of something that sweet. That uncomplicated. That good and clean and untouched by the violence that defines my life.
The last time I let myself believe I could have something like that, she walked away. Left without looking back. Left me standing in a hallway with her hand slipping out of mine and a promise on my lips that I've been keeping ever since.
Left me with Luan. With duty. With an oath to keep him safe no matter what.
"This is fucking good," Luan says. He sets down his fork with a soft clink against the plate. "What is this?"
I don't know the name. "Lily?" I call.
Footsteps approach from the kitchen. Quick. Light. The soft padding of sneakers against hardwood. Someone moving efficiently through a space they're still learning but adapting to quickly.
"Yes?"
"The food is excellent," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "What are we eating?"
She blushes immediately. A soft pink spreading across her cheeks, starting at her neck and climbing upward until even her ears are tinged with color. A small smile appears. Shy. Pleased. Self-conscious.
Dimples form on either side of her mouth.
My chest tightens. Heat pools low in my stomach. Blood rushing south without my permission.
Those dimples. That blush. Both hit me harder than they should. Harder than anything has in years. Harder than I'm prepared for.
I want to make her blush again. Want to see those dimples deepen. Want to know what other reactions I could pull from her if I tried. If I touched her again. If I said the right words in the right tone.
Zot me ndihmoni. God help me.
"Marry me chicken orzo," she says. Her voice is soft. Almost apologetic, like she's embarrassed by the name. "I made sure to cut the chicken into very small pieces. So it's easier to eat."
My body reacts without permission. Pulse kicking up. Skin feeling too tight. Awareness sharpening to a fine point that centers entirely on her.
On the curve of her neck. The softness of her mouth. The way her shirt fits across her chest.
I force myself to look away. Clear my throat. "It's very good. Thank you."
"Thank you." She steps forward, starts gathering the empty plates. Her fingers brush the edge of mine as she takes my plate. Brief. Accidental. The barest whisper of contact.
But I feel it like a spark. Like static electricity jumping between us.
She leaves. Disappears back into the kitchen.
The room feels emptier without her. Quieter. Like someone turned down the volume on everything.
I look at Luan. His expression has changed completely. The contentment is gone. Wiped away. His jaw is tight. His hands rest flat on the table, fingers pressed hard against the wood.
"She's an excellent cook," I say carefully. Testing the waters. Trying to defuse whatever's building in him.
"She's treating me like I'm helpless." His voice is cold. Flat. The kind of cold that comes right before violence.
"She's being considerate."
"Considerate." He repeats the word like it's poison. Like it tastes bitter on his tongue. "She cut my food into small pieces, Artan. Like I'm a child who can't be trusted with a knife."
"She's making things easier so you can eat without struggling."
"Like an invalid." He stands abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor with a harsh screech. "That's what I am now. Someone who needs special accommodations."
I keep my voice low. Steady. "You're making progress. The doctor said a few more weeks. Maybe less. Your vision is improving. You'll be fully recovered."
He doesn't respond. Just stands there with his jaw working, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. The buzz is loud in the tense silence.
I pull it out. Check the screen.
A message from the lobby security guard.
Erion Kodra here. Says he needs to see you and Mr. Krasniqi. Should I send him up?
I grunt. Low. Annoyed.
"What?" Luan asks. His head turns toward me, orienting on the sound.
"Erion is downstairs. Wants to come up."
Silence. Long and heavy. Weighted with all the things we're not saying about the man who now knows Luan's biggest vulnerability.
"I don't trust him," Luan says finally. The words come out hard.
"Me neither." I pocket my phone. "But it's a necessary risk. Besa binds him. He swore an oath. And we need him. Need his men. Need the alliance to hold."
Luan's jaw works. Grinds. Then he nods once. Sharp. Final. A decision made even though he doesn't like it.
I text the guard back. Send him up.
I walk to the front door. Position myself. Wait. Listen. The elevator dings distantly down the hall. Footsteps approach. Confident. Unhurried. The walk of a man who doesn't fear what's waiting for him.
I open the door before he can knock.
Erion stands there in the hallway, grinning like he's arriving at a party instead of a business meeting. "What's wrong, Berisha? You open the door that fast for everyone or just the people you don't trust?"
He walks past me without invitation. Doesn't wait for permission. Just strides into the apartment like he owns it.
His energy fills the space immediately. Chaotic. Restless. Crackling. The kind of presence that makes a room feel smaller and more volatile. Like the air pressure just changed and now everything's on edge.
Lily is at the dining table, setting down small dessert plates. She looks up at the sound of footsteps. Her hands freeze mid-motion. Her eyes widen slightly.
Erion sits down at the table without asking. Sprawls in the chair like he owns it. He looks directly at Lily, and his grin widens.
"So you're the angel making this place smell like heaven."
She blushes. Deep and immediate. The pink spreading down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt.
Something hot and possessive flares in my chest. Sharp. Territorial. Irrational.
That blush should belong to me. Only me.
"Will you be having dessert too?" Lily asks. Her voice is tentative. Uncertain. Like she's not sure if she's allowed to ask.
"No," Luan says flatly from across the room. "He won't be staying long."
"Actually, I will be staying." Erion's tone loses the humor. Turns serious. "We have business to discuss. Important business."
Tension, immediate and dangerous, spikes in the room. Luan's hands tighten on the back of his chair. Knuckles going white.
"Fine," he says. The word comes out clipped.
Lily sets small plates in front of me and Luan's place. Warm ricotta drizzled with honey, golden and thick. Lemon zest scattered across the surface like flecks of sunlight. Cracked pistachios adding texture and color. The smell is incredible. Sweet and bright and rich all at once.
"I'll get one for you too," she says to Erion. Polite. Accommodating.
"Don't bother, dashuri," Erion says. Sweetheart.
The Albanian endearment rolls off his tongue easily.
"I don't want anything sweet right now. But I'll come find you later when the mood strikes.
" He pauses. Lets that implication hang in the air.
Then adds, "I would kill for a good strong coffee though. "
"We'll take coffee in the office," I say fast, before Erion can say anything else. Before Lily can respond. Before this situation can get any more uncomfortable.
Lily nods. Slips back into the kitchen without a word.
We move to the office. Luan navigates the familiar path without hesitation. His hand trails along the wall briefly, then drops. He sits behind his desk. Reclaims his territory. His space.