3. Kiera
KIERA
"Kiera, what the hell?" Arnie's voice cuts through the music, sharp and accusatory. "Who is this guy?"
My fingers dig into the stranger's arm, probably hard enough to bruise. "I told you. He's my fiancé."
Arnie's face twists into something ugly. "Bullshit. You don't have a fiancé."
"Actually," the man beside me says, his voice low and calm, cutting through Arnie's anger like a knife through butter, "we are engaged."
I freeze. My heart stutters in my chest as the words register. He's backing me up. This complete stranger is actually playing along.
"You're lying," Arnie snarls, but there's uncertainty creeping into his voice now.
The stranger's arm shifts under my grip, muscles flexing beneath expensive fabric. "I don't lie."
Something in his tone makes it clear that's the end of the discussion. It's not loud or aggressive, just… absolute. Final.
Arnie's face goes red. "This is bullshit. You can't just—"
"Leave." One word. That's all it takes. The stranger doesn't raise his voice, doesn't move, but suddenly, the air feels heavier, more dangerous.
Arnie opens his mouth, closes it, then turns and storms off into the crowd. I watch him go, hardly believing it worked.
"Thank you," I breathe, turning to face my unexpected savior. "I'm so sorry, I just needed him to—"
The words die in my throat as I get my first real look at him.
Oh, my God.
I hadn't been paying attention when I grabbed him. I'd been too focused on Arnie, too desperate to escape. But now, looking at him properly, I can't breathe.
He's not just attractive. He's devastating.
Dark brown eyes meet mine, and there's something in them that makes my stomach flip.
Something dangerous and knowing and intense.
His light brown hair has threads of gray running through it, and his scruffy beard frames a mouth that's currently curved into the barest hint of a smile.
He's older than me, maybe late thirties or early forties, and he wears it like a weapon.
Heat floods my face as my eyes drop without permission.
His dark shirt stretches across broad shoulders and a chest that looks solid enough to break someone in half.
The fabric pulls tight across his flat stomach, and lower, his jeans sit in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
I can see the outline of him, thick and prominent, and Jesus Christ, I need to stop staring.
My gaze jerks back up to his face, where one eyebrow has risen slightly. He caught me looking.
"I… um…" My brain has apparently stopped working. "Thank you. Really. You didn't have to do that."
He nods once, still watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes. Then his mouth curves into something that might be a smile. "Since you've publicly claimed me as your fiancé, we'll have to get married for real."
I blink once, twice. Then I laugh, the tension breaking. "Right. Good one."
He doesn't laugh with me, doesn't even smile. He just keeps looking at me with that steady, intense gaze that makes my skin feel too tight.
"You're joking," I say, but it comes out less certain than I intended.
"I don't joke."
My heart does another one of those weird, stuttering things. "You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious." He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "You used me to solve your problem. Now you're mine."
There's something in the way he says "mine" that sends a shiver down my spine. Not fear, exactly. Something else. Something that makes me very aware of how close we're standing, how his hand has somehow found its way to the small of my back.
"I don't even know your name," I manage.
"Emil."
"Emil," I repeat, and I like the way it feels in my mouth. Strong. Solid. "I'm Kiera."
"I know." His thumb traces a small circle against my back, and I feel it through the thin fabric of my dress like a brand. "Arnie said it. When you were claiming me."
"I didn't mean—" I start, but he's already moving, guiding me deeper onto the dance floor with a hand that's both gentle and completely unyielding.
"Dance with me, Kiera."
It's not a question. It's a command delivered in that same calm, certain tone that made Arnie back down. I should probably be annoyed by that. Instead, I find myself moving with him, letting him pull me close as the music shifts to something slower, heavier.
His body against mine is solid and warm, and I can feel the strength in him, coiled and controlled. One hand stays on my back, the other catches mine, and we move together like we've done this a thousand times before.
"So," I say, trying to regain some sense of normalcy, "you're really going to keep insisting we're engaged?"
"Yes."
"Because I grabbed your arm and said you were my fiancé to get rid of my ex?"
"Yes."
I laugh again, shaking my head. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." His hand slides lower on my back, fingers splaying across the curve just above my ass. "Or perhaps I simply see an opportunity when it presents itself."
"An opportunity for what?"
His eyes meet mine, and there's heat there. Real, unmistakable heat that makes my breath catch. "That remains to be seen."
We dance for what feels like hours. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, his words are deliberate, chosen carefully. He asks me questions and actually listens to the answers. It's intoxicating, having someone's full attention like this. Having his attention.
I can't stop looking at him. The way his jaw clenches when someone bumps into us.
The way his eyes track every movement around us, always aware and watching.
The ink crawling up his neck from beneath his collar, elaborate designs that hint at more hidden beneath his clothes.
The way his body moves against mine, confident and controlled and so damn sexy, I can barely think straight.
"You're staring," he murmurs at one point, his mouth close to my ear.
"You're worth staring at," I shoot back, and I swear I feel him smile against my hair.
His friend, the tall one with the goatee who was with him earlier, appears at some point, raising an eyebrow at Emil. They have a brief, silent conversation that I can't interpret, and then the friend melts back into the crowd.
"Your friend thinks I'm crazy," I guess.
"Luca thinks everyone is crazy." Emil's hand tightens on my waist, pulling me closer. "He's not wrong."
"Are you crazy?"
"Probably." He pulls back enough to look at me, and there's something in his expression that makes my pulse race. Something predatory and possessive. "But I'm also serious. About the engagement."
"Emil—"
"You'll see," he says simply, and then he's kissing me.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's claiming, possessive, the kind of kiss that makes my knees weak and my brain shut off completely.
His hand fists in my short hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, and I melt into him like I've been waiting my whole life for this.
His other hand grips my ass, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel every hard inch of him pressed against my stomach.
When he finally pulls back, I'm breathing hard, my lips tingling, my entire body on fire.
"Holy shit," I whisper.
His mouth curves into a real smile this time, and it transforms his face. "Go home, Kiera. I'll be in touch."
"But—"
"Go home." He releases me, stepping back, and suddenly, I'm cold without his body against mine. "Before I change my mind about letting you leave."
I should argue. Should demand answers. Should do a lot of things. Instead, I find myself nodding, backing away, my eyes locked on his until the crowd swallows him up.
Sarah and Jess find me near the exit, both of them talking at once, demanding to know what happened, who that was, and why I'm looking at them like I've been hit by a truck.
"I don't know," I tell them honestly. "I have no idea what just happened."
Back in my apartment, I can't sleep. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment. The way Emil looked at me. The way he touched me. How he kissed me like he owned me.
"Since you've publicly claimed me as your fiancé, we'll have to get married for real."
He can't have been serious. Can he?
I roll over, punching my pillow, trying to get comfortable. It doesn't work. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Those dark eyes. That scruffy beard. The ink crawling up his neck. The way his body felt pressed against mine, hard and solid and so perfectly male, it made my brain short-circuit.
I've never reacted to anyone like this. This is different. Intense. Almost frightening in its immediacy.
"You're being ridiculous," I tell myself. "He was joking. It was all just… a game. A way to help you out."
But he kissed me like it wasn't a game.
I finally fall asleep sometime after three, and when I do, I dream of dark eyes and dangerous smiles.
Monday morning comes too soon. I drag myself into the office, still half-asleep, and try to focus on my work. It's impossible. Every time I sit down at my desk, my mind wanders back to Saturday night. To Emil.
I don't even have his number. I didn't think to ask for it. He said he'd be in touch, but how? Does he even know where I work?
"Kiera, I need these files copied," my boss says, dropping a stack of papers on my desk.
"Sure thing." I grab them, grateful for something to do with my hands.
The morning drags. I make copies, answer phones, fetch coffee, and run errands. All the usual secretary duties that I've been doing for two years while I wait for my chance to actually design something. Anything.
I'm just settling back at my desk with my lunch when Melissa from Accounting appears, a newspaper clutched in her hand. She's got that look on her face, the one that says she's got gossip and she's dying to share it.
"Kiera Walker," she says, her voice loud enough to carry across the office. "Why didn't you tell anyone you were engaged?"
My stomach drops. "What?"
She tosses the newspaper onto my desk, folding her arms across her chest. "It's right there. In the announcements."
I look down at the paper, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
There, in black and white, is an official engagement announcement.
Emil Nikitin and Kiera Walker are Pleased to Announce their Engagement.
The world tilts sideways.