Chapter 14
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t respond, his lips still beneath mine. Then his hand comes up to cup my cheek, but instead of pulling me closer, he draws back.
With a whine of protest, I follow him, closing the gap as I try to kiss him again.
His hand firms on my jaw, holding me still. “Hey, look at me.”
I do. My chest is heaving.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says. “Not with me.”
“I want to. I need—” My hands find the front of his shirt. “Orien, I need—”
“I know.” His thumb moves to my lower lip, and the gentleness of it is almost worse than if he’d pushed me away. “I know what you need. But not like this.”
“Please.” The word comes out before I can stop it.
His gaze drops to my lips, and a shudder goes through him before he pulls the rein’s tight on his self-control.
“You’re drunk,” he says, as if he needs to remind himself of this, too. “You’re in shock. You just killed a man.”
He reaches out and grabs the stuffed fox, fitting it back into my arms, where I latch on tight.
His hand returns to my head, stroking my hair as if he can’t stop himself from touching me again. “You’re not in the right state of mind to make any decisions tonight while you’re crashing.”
I blink up at him, hating him a little for caring more for my agency than I do.
“It’s okay to want comfort and connection.
But I’m not going to take advantage of that when you’re not thinking clearly.
” His touch moves down to my nape, one finger slipping under the guard to graze my skin.
“When we’re together, I want it to be because you chose it, not because you needed an escape. ”
My heart twists around itself. No one’s ever cared what I wanted before, not really. Even Alexei, who loves me, would have told me to leverage this moment to my advantage.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, the words thick. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t.” He massages the base of my skull, and my lashes flutter in response. “Don’t apologize for wanting. But…” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “Wait until you’re sure it’s what you want, not just what you need.”
I let out a shaky sigh. “Okay.”
Orien’s hand squeezes gently before he reaches out to grab my abandoned food and places it back in front of me. “Finish your food. I’ll be right back.”
As he leaves me to my thoughts and heads into the kitchen, I stare down at the container of chicken and rice without seeing it. No one’s ever treated me this way before. As if what I want matters. As if my consent is worth protecting, even from myself.
It should make me nervous. It should leave me wondering what he wants in return, what he expects from me when this is all over.
Instead, I just want to cry all over again.
Despite the knot in my stomach, I take another bite of food, and another after that, chewing and swallowing as Orien moves through the kitchen. He rinses the dishes in the sink, dries them with a dish towel, and puts them away in the cabinet.
It’s so normal. So domestic. So at odds with the violence that happened here only hours ago that I can’t quite reconcile the two.
The dishes put away, Orien comes to sit beside me on the bed. “How’s the food?”
“Good,” I answer, surprised to find it’s the truth. “Thank you.”
He adds more water to the glass from a bottle he brought from the kitchen. “Drink up.”
I do as he asks, and when I finish, my stomach stretches taut. He takes the empty glass and the food container from my lap and takes care of them before he returns to my side.
“You should try to sleep,” he says. “It’s been a long day.”
The understatement draws a watery laugh from me. “Just a bit.”
His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “Yeah, well.” He stands, then pauses, looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “I’ll go so you can rest.”
The thought of him leaving sends a jolt of panic through me so powerful it leaves me dizzy. “Don’t.” I reach out to catch his hand. “Please. I don’t want to be alone.”
His face softens. “Okay, lie down. I’ll turn off the lights.”
I do as he asks, curling onto my side with the fox hugged close. My cheek sinks into the pillow as exhaustion hits with sudden force.
Orien moves through the apartment, turning off lights and checking locks. Darkness settles over the room. A moment later, the mattress dips beneath his weight.
Through heavy-lidded eyes, I watch as Orien removes his outer clothes. First, his jacket, which he folds and sets on the chair by my desk. His shoes follow. His shirt and pants stay on, though. He removes only enough to be comfortable before settling onto the mattress again.
“Move over,” he says, careful not to disturb the fragile calm that has settled over the room.
I shift toward the wall, leaving space for him beside me, and Orien stretches out on top of the comforter, careful to leave space between us. He unfolds the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulls it over us both with a single, smooth motion.
The blanket is warm, the weight of it comforting as it settles over us. Orien lies on his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting at his side, close enough for me to reach out if I want to.
I don’t. I just lie there, watching him from the corner of my eye, the stuffed fox a barrier between us.
The silence stretches, not quite comfortable but not tense, either. Just waiting, patient, giving me space to find my voice again.
When I finally speak, the words come out as a rasp. “You don’t have to stay.”
Orien turns toward me, steady as ever. “I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He considers the question with the same careful attention he gives everything. “Because you asked me to.” His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, fingers warm as they curl around my palm. “And because I want to.”
I inch closer, my body seeking his warmth, and Orien releases my hand to slide his arm around my shoulders, drawing me closer until my head rests on his chest, the stuffed fox half on top of him.
“Try to sleep.” Lips graze the top of my head. “I’ve got you.”
I listen to his heartbeat and the slow cadence of his breathing. For a few moments, it works. But each time I drift toward sleep, images flash behind my eyelids, and I jerk back to consciousness with my heart racing.
After the third time, Orien’s hand finds my hair, fingers gentle as they brush through the damp strands. “Can’t sleep?”
I shake my head against his chest. “Every time I close my eyes…”
Orien pulls out his phone, and the screen lights up the darkened room with a soft blue glow. “Here, check this out.”
The screen shows a video of a fox, a flash of red racing across the snow before it pounces on something out of frame. The camera zooms in as the fox lifts its head, a mouse dangling from its jaws. The fox shakes it violently before swallowing it whole.
I blink. “Did you just show me a fox eating a mouse?”
“Give it a second,” Orien says, already swiping to a new video.
This one shows a fox playing with a plastic bottle, batting it back and forth with its paws before picking it up in its mouth and shaking it with ridiculous enthusiasm.
The camera shakes with what must be the cameraperson’s laughter, and the fox freezes, bottle still in its mouth, to stare directly at the lens with offended dignity.
“That’s you with the corn dog,” Orien deadpans. “Exactly the same expression.”
A surprised laugh escapes before I can stop it. “I did not look like that.”
“You absolutely did.” He swipes to another video. “This one’s my favorite.”
The new video shows a fox standing on its hind legs, paws planted on a glass door as it peers inside with desperate longing. The caption reads, “When you see the last slice of pizza.”
“I don’t—” I start, but stop when the fox’s high, plaintive whine sounds exactly like the noise I made when Orien took the last bite of my cotton candy. “Oh, my god.”
Orien’s chest vibrates with a silent laugh. “Told you.”
He swipes to another video, then another, each one featuring a fox doing something ridiculous or adorable or both.
Orien’s dry commentary grows more elaborate with each one, until I’m laughing so hard my ribs ache, and tears stream down my cheeks.
It’s too much, the release of tension after hours of fear and shock, and I bury my face in Orien’s chest to muffle the sound.
His arm tightens around me, holding me close as the laughter turns to tears, then back again, until I’m not sure if I’m laughing or crying or both.
And through it all, Orien holds me.
I wake to sunlight streaming through my windows and the aroma of coffee warming the air. My head pounds with the aftermath of too many hits, too much whiskey, and too much crying. My entire body aches, bruises stiffening overnight into patches of purple and blue across my ribs and back.
“You’re awake.”
I startle at the sound of Orien’s voice and twist around to find him standing in the kitchen, a mug in each hand, watching me with careful attention. He’s dressed, his jacket back on, shoes on his feet, but his hair is rumpled on one side, proving that last night wasn’t a dream.
“You’re still here,” I say with more surprise than I intended to reveal.
The scent of coffee grows stronger as he sets one of the mugs on the nightstand. “I said I would be.” He holds out the second mug. “Drink. It’ll help with the headache.”
I push myself up to sitting, wincing as my ribs protest the movement, and take the mug with careful hands. The coffee is hot and strong, on the right side of bitter, with the perfect amount of cream.
Exactly how I prefer it.
“Thank you.” I take a sip, and grimace when it stings to swallow.
Orien sits on the bed and brushes the hair off my forehead. “How’s the headache?”
“Bad,” I admit. “But better with the coffee.”
He pulls a tube of salve from his pocket. “This will help with the swelling.”
He unscrews the cab to squeeze some cream out of his fingers and works it into the bruise along my jaw. “The marks on your throat are going to show for a bit.”
I sit still beneath his touch, focusing on the careful movement of his hands rather than the memories trying to surface. His fingers are warm on my skin, the salve leaving a cooling trail in their wake.
His hand leaves my jaw and moves to my shoulder, then down my arm. “How’s your side?”
“Sore,” I admit. “But I don’t think any ribs are cracked.”
He hums, noncommittal, his fingers finding the hem of my shirt. “May I?”
I set the coffee on the nightstand beside his and lift my arms. He lifts the fabric with care to examine the bruise along my ribs. His touch comes feather-light, skimming the skin, but I still flinch when he finds a tender spot.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “One sec.” His fingers probe the area with careful attention. “Looks like it’s just badly bruised.”
He lowers my shirt with the same careful attention, ensuring it settles into place before he stands.
“Stay here,” he says. “I’ll bring you a plate.”
A sense of déjà vu fills me, and I reclaim my coffee to sip from its brim while he starts breakfast, pulling a pan from the cabinet, setting it on the stove, and cracking eggs into it with practiced motions.
He’s preparing breakfast. In my apartment. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
A few minutes later, Orien returns with a plate of eggs and toast, which he sets on my lap. “Eat all of it.”
I pick up the fork. “Aren’t you having any?”
“I ate while you were sleeping. You were passed out hard.”
“Huh. I’m usually a light sleeper.” The eggs are perfectly cooked, the toast golden brown, and my body responds to the food with immediate interest. “Thank you.”
His hand covers my foot over the blanket. “I have to go to work today. Rowan’s expecting me at noon.”
The statement sends a jolt of panic through me, and I set my fork down before I drop it. “I understand. “Thank you for…for everything.”
Orien’s brow furrows.
“You’re coming with me,” he says. “I’m not leaving you here alone after last night.”
“I…okay,” I manage. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, fingers warm as they curl around my palm. “We’ll leave in an hour. That should give you enough time to shower and change.”
He leans down to nuzzle my cheek. “Finish your food. I’ll clean up while you get ready.”
As he heads back toward the kitchen, I reach for my fork, and my hand trembles.
He moves through my kitchen as if he belongs there, calm and steady and terrifyingly real.
Somewhere between the body on my kitchen floor and waking up to him preparing me breakfast, something inside me shifted.
Because for the first time in my life, being alone scares me more than getting caught.