4. Aurora
4
AURORA
The Lamborghini purrs around us, the interior dim except for the pale glow from the dashboard. Streets that normally intimidate me with their exposure feel almost private in the cocoon of his car.
The space between us feels charged, crackling with something I haven't felt in years.
I watch the neon lights slide across Ruslan's profile, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. He catches me looking, and I quickly turn away.
"You're quiet now," Ruslan says, his voice filling the intimate space. "Lost your critical spirit already?"
His cologne, carrying subtle notes of mahogany and cedarwood, mingles with the leather seats. The scent caresses me, heating my skin despite the cool air blowing from the vents.
"Still can't believe I'm not fired." I twist my hands in my lap. "After what I said about your movie to your face."
Ruslan chuckles, the sound deep and rich. When he glances at me, the passing streetlights illuminate the gold in his eyes.
"It's refreshing, actually." His fingers tap the steering wheel, drawing my attention to his tattooed hands framed by his expensive cuffs. "Most people just tell me what they think I want to hear."
"Trust me, if I had known who you were, I would have been way more discreet."
"And that would have been a tremendous loss."
As we drive through the hills, his hand moves from the gearshift to rest casually between us on the center console. A neutral gesture, neither demanding nor retreating. My fingers rest inches from his. I can close the distance in a heartbeat if I want.
And I do want. But the tiny little voice of caution that's always whispering in the back of my head keeps my hand still, even as my heart throbs at my throat.
I study him for a moment longer, and then finally admit. "I don't usually get into cars with men I've just met."
"Yet here you are." His eyes meet mine. "What made you say yes?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. "I'm not entirely sure," I admit. "Maybe I'm tired of saying no to everything."
"I understand that feeling." His expression becomes more serious. "Saying no keeps you safe."
"But it also keeps you lonely," I whisper, surprising myself with the admission.
A ghost of a smile graces his lips. "That it does."
Something about the way he says it makes me think he's being more than just observant.
He's speaking from experience.
Just like he did about trauma.
He shifts the gears with casual elegance, and my mind wanders, imagining those hands shifting something else entirely.
Maybe sliding up my thigh instead of the gearshift.
I blink the thought away before my face betrays me.
The car stops at a red light, and he turns to face me fully. "I'm curious if you're about to do any other things you don't usually do tonight.”
I muster a small laugh. "I think you might be disappointed."
"Really?" His smile is devastating in profile. "Did you forget the part where you stole the script and were hiding in the alley reading it? Not exactly risk-averse behavior."
"You're right." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, surprised by my own boldness. "Guess I'm not the good girl everyone thinks I am."
His laugh fills the car. It sounds warm, rich, and completely disarming. "For the record, I never saw you as a good girl."
The way he says it makes heat bloom across my skin. His fingers drum against the steering wheel. The motion draws my attention to the intricate tattoos curving across his knuckles.
"Then what did you see?" I ask, my voice softer than intended.
The words slip from my lips so naturally, it's as if someone else is controlling them. Flirting? I don't flirt. I can't flirt.
Maybe I did once upon a time, but that girl is gone.
For seven years, I've perfected the art of invisibility, of keeping men at a distance where they can't hurt me or anyone I care about.
Yet here I am, trading suggestive banter with a man I just met, a powerful man who could easily dig into my past if something about me catches his interest.
But the terrifying part isn't that I'm flirting with Ruslan. It's how right it feels, like slipping back into a favorite pair of shoes I'd forgotten I owned.
"Someone bold and audacious even as she hides from attention." His voice drops lower. "But still wants the world to see just how bad she can be."
My breath stills.
For a second, I imagine leaning across the center console, grabbing his perfectly tailored lapel, and proving him right. I bet his lips would taste like the champagne from the party.
"I—" The word comes out strangled, and I clear my throat. "I think I've been bad enough for one evening. Maybe even for the whole year."
"Would you like some encouragement?" he murmurs, his voice thickening with each word.
My heart races like I've been sprinting. How am I supposed to answer that? Seven years of practiced caution screams at me to pull back, to remember why I don't do this. But something else, a desire that I've longed for in these seven long years, urges me forward.
Ruslan leans closer, his presence enveloping me in his irresistibly subtle scent. His hand reaches across, fingers grazing my cheek with surprising gentleness for hands that strong.
"Well, zarechka ?" he whispers.
I don't know what the word means, but the way it rolls off his tongue makes my skin tingle. I should say no. I should remind him we're practically strangers. I should do something—anything—other than what I'm about to do:
I nod.
His lips brush against mine, tentatively at first, like he's giving me one last chance to retreat. But I'm tired of retreating. I'm tired of hiding. So I press forward, erasing the last bit of distance between us.
Oh god.
His mouth is warm and commanding against mine. One of his hands slides to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. The gentle tug sends electricity down my spine, and I can't help the small sound that escapes me.
It's been so long since I've kissed anyone, so long since I've allowed myself this simple pleasure. And this? This is no simple kiss. It ignites an absolute, all-consuming fire inside me, burning me up in a heat that I thought I'd forgotten.
Just as his tongue sweeps against mine, just as I'm reaching to grip his impossibly broad shoulders?—
HOOOOONNNNK!
We spring apart like guilty teenagers. The driver behind us is leaning on their horn, the light having turned green who knows how long ago.
Ruslan shifts the car back into gear with a casual grace that makes it hard to believe he was just kissing me senseless. He glances at me as we accelerate, one corner of his mouth curled up in a smile that's pure sin.
"I think by the end of the night." He takes a turn, his tattooed fingers manipulating the wheel with precision. "I'll see a glimpse of the real Aurora."
The real Aurora.
If only he knew there is no real Aurora.
Aurora Castellanos is built on carefully layered lies. A character that I've been playing for seven years while I hide from the monster of my past.
A flash of terror cuts through my desire. What if he does see through me? What if he somehow discovers the girl I used to be?
Jamie Fields is dead, I remind myself. She can't ever come back.
"What makes you think you'll like what you find?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
"Because I like what I see."
His words set my heart fluttering again and I have to grip the edge of the leather seat to ground myself.
The car takes another bend and climbs higher into the hills. Below us, Los Angeles transforms into a constellation of twinkling lights, growing smaller with each curve of the road.
His hand moves again. But instead of the gearshift, his fingers land lightly on my knee, warm through the thin fabric of my dress.
A small gasp escapes me before I can stop it. The touch is innocent enough, but it sends electricity racing up my thigh.
"You're an enigma, Aurora Castellanos," he says, his voice low and rich.
I shiver softly at the touch. Seven years of careful distance, of protecting myself and anyone who might get close to me, all demand that I pull back. But I don't. I close my eyes, surrendering to the fact that I'm being touched, really touched, for the first time in years.
God, I've missed this.
"Isn't that why we're all here? In this town? In this industry?"
"Insightful as always." A soft laugh rumbles from his chest and something ghosts across his chiseled face that tells me I'm not the only one holding secrets.
But his hand on my knee—warm and inviting—beckons me to do something equally reckless.
Slowly, one aching inch at a time, I part my legs to give him better access. Taking the cue, he traces small circles with his fingers until they slowly slip under the hem of my skirt.
Flesh finds flesh, and I let out a long trembling breath that I didn't realize I had been holding.
"Still think you've been bad enough for the whole year?"
"Yes," I whisper, hardly recognizing my own voice.
His hand slides higher, the heat of his touch burning deliciously against my skin. "Even now?"
"Even now."
My heart is a wild thing in my chest as his fingers drift higher still, tracing the sensitive inside of my thigh. I've dreamed touches like this in the darkness of my bedroom, alone and safe from the consequences.
But this is real and dangerous and exhilarating.
"You like this, don't you?" His voice is a caress itself, confident and knowing.
"I do," I whisper again, head tipping back against the seat.
His fingers dance higher, sending a jolt of pure wanting through me.
A fleeting, wild thought crosses my mind: if he pulled over right now, would I beg him to lay me out on the hood of his car under the stars? The thought of his strong hands lifting me onto the warm metal, his body pressing between my thighs, and his lips crushing against mine while he thrusts into me.
Just as my fantasy reaches a crescendo, Ruslan's fingers suddenly withdraw. My eyes fly open, a protest forming on my lips.
"We're here," Ruslan says.
I blink slowly as my senses return, realizing the car has stopped. Looking out the window, I feel my heart skipping several beats at once.
"Nikoforov?" I breathe the name like a prayer.
The sleek, modern building with its subtle lighting and discreet entrance is the most exclusive club in LA. Celebrities flock here precisely because it's one of the few places they can let loose without worrying about ending up on TMZ the next morning.
And even better, they have a very strict no-camera and anti-paparazzi policy that they enforce ruthlessly.
"I told you we were going somewhere more private," Ruslan says, watching my reaction with that half-smile. "This is as private as it gets in Los Angeles."
I take in the understated elegance of the entrance. The doorman stands at attention, his posture straightening noticeably when he spots Ruslan's car.
"You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"
"I'm not the only one." He looks at me. "Who hurt you, Aurora?"
His question stirs something in me that I've kept buried for years. For a dangerous moment, I imagine what it might be like to tell him everything: who I really am, and what I'm running from.
The thought is as terrifying as it is tempting.
But I can't.
"What makes you think I have any?"
"Everyone in this town has secrets," he replies. "But yours seem different. You were avoiding my attention back at the party. You want to be in films but you don't want to be noticed." His observation is casual but accurate. "And you flinch when you see photographers."
I swallow hard. "You're very perceptive. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"I notice things others don't."
"I'm just private," I say finally. "Not everyone wants their life splashed across Instagram."
The truth hangs unspoken between us.
He studies me for a moment. "Fair enough. But there's a difference between privacy and hiding."
He doesn't push further, allowing the moment to stretch between us. It's an invitation I have the option of accepting or declining as the pounding bass murmurs from Nikoforov.
The accuracy of his assessment makes my chest tighten. "And which one are you doing?" I counter. "Privacy or hiding?"
His smile returns, appreciative of my deflection as he opens his door and steps out to open mine. "A little bit of both."
His understanding tone makes me want to trust him with my secrets. But how can I explain to Ruslan that somewhere out there, a monster is still hunting a girl whom the world thinks is dead?
"Everyone's entitled to their privacy." A hand with the familiar tattoo of a small bird with broken wings extends toward me, beckoning me to take it. "Especially in this city that feeds on exposure. Don't you agree, zarechka? "
I take a deep breath and slide my hand into his, feeling the warmth pour from him as he helps me to my feet.