Chapter Fourteen
The elevator doors slide open, and I step into the penthouse, bringing the cold winter air with me.
The meeting with Kuznetsov had been tedious, a waste of hours I could have spent better elsewhere, but necessary.
Internal politics are a swamp you couldn’t ignore unless you wanted to be dragged under.
I unbutton my coat, hanging it on the rack by the door. The penthouse is quiet, the kind of heavy, anticipatory silence that usually precedes a storm.
I spot her immediately.
She’s standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city. Her back is to me, stiff and unyielding. She’s wearing the pendant I gave her this morning, the gold chain glinting against her pale skin.
It’s the posture that gives her away. She’s not just looking out the window; she’s bracing herself.
Turning, I close the distance between us. My footsteps are silent on the marble, but she hears me. She tenses, her shoulders drawing up like a cat about to be cornered.
When she turns, the confirmation is instant.
It’s in her eyes. The green fire I’ve grown accustomed to has changed. It’s not just defiance anymore. It’s not just the usual resentment of a captive.
It’s accusation.
The realization hits me with a cold clarity. She found something. The question is, how much?
“Rough day?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. Conversational.
“Enlightening,” she counters. Her voice is calm, but there’s a tremor running underneath it, like a plucked violin string.
I walk past her to the bar, pouring myself a glass of water. I don’t look at her, but I can feel her gaze burning a hole in my back. Watching. Waiting.
“Did you get what you needed?” she asks.
“The meeting was a formality. Kuznetsov likes to hear himself talk.”
“And you like to let him.”
I turn, leaning back against the counter. “Is there a point to this, Freya, or are we just engaging in pleasantries?”
She takes a step closer. “I was thinking about Ayaan,” she says.
The name drops like a stone in the room.
“We always seem to come back to him,” I reply, taking a sip of water.
“Well, he’s the reason we’re here,” she says. Her voice is gaining strength, the tremor fading into something harder. “He’s the reason you’re wearing that ring, and I’m wearing this one.” She lifts her hand, the diamond catching the light.
“Is he?” I ask. “Or is he just the excuse you use to justify your rebellion?”
“I don’t need an excuse.”
“Then stop hiding behind a ghost.”
“He’s not a ghost!” she snaps, the control slipping. “He was a person. A person you knew.”
I don’t deny it, but I watch her.
“So you’ve decided to stop speculating,” I observe. “You’ve found your proof.”
Her eyes narrow. She didn’t expect me to concede the point so easily. She expected a deflection. A lie.
I give her neither.
“I know what I saw,” she says, her voice low.
“Do you?”
“Transferred.” She spits out the word like a curse. “That’s what it said. External handling. That’s your nice, clean way of saying you sold him.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I know it.”
I set the glass down on the counter with a sharp clink. The sound seems to echo in the sudden silence.
“You have a very active imagination, Freya.”
“It’s not imagination!” She moves closer, her hands clenching at her sides. “I saw the signature. I saw the initials. N.G. You authorized it.”
I take a step toward her. She doesn’t step back.
“I authorize a lot of things,” I say. “Shipments, deals, personnel moves. It’s a big operation.”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” she hisses. “You knew exactly who he was. You knew what he was to me.”
“Did I?”
“He was my brother!”
“Maybe he was a liability,” I correct, my voice dropping to match hers. “A loose end that needed to be tied.”
“How dare you.”
“I dare because it’s the truth.”
She’s trembling now but not with fear. With rage. Pure, unadulterated rage.
“You have no idea,” she says, her voice shaking. “You have no idea what it was like. Watching him leave, waiting for him. Wondering if he was dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“I know exactly what it was like.”
“Bullshit. You don’t know anything about loss. You don’t know anything about love.”
I take another step. We’re toe-to-toe now. The air between us is crackling, electric with the force of her anger.
“I know that love makes you weak,” I say. “I know that it makes you stupid. Ayaan was an idiot for thinking he could fix his mistakes by borrowing money from people who don’t offer second chances.”
“He was trying to save me!”
“He was trying to save himself,” I counter. “And he dragged you down with him.”
“He didn’t drag me anywhere!”
“Then why are you here?” I demand. “Why are you standing in my penthouse, wearing my ring, screaming at me about a brother who’s been gone for two years?”
“I want the truth!”
“You can’t handle the truth!”
“Try me!”
I snap. I move fast, grabbing her arm and grabbing her wrists. I crowd her back, pinning her against the wall.
She gasps, her back hitting the plaster with a dull thud. One hand is braced beside her head, the other gripping her waist, holding her in place.
“Let go of me,” she warns.
“No.”
We’re breathing hard, chest to chest. The heat of her body is seeping through my shirt, igniting a fire that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with proximity.
“You think you understand what you saw,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You think a few pieces of paper make you an expert on my world.”
“I understand enough,” she fires back. Her eyes are locked on mine, fierce and unyielding. “I understand that you’re a monster.”
“Then why aren’t you running?”
She freezes. The question catches her off guard. “You have answers,” she says. “I think you know where he is.”
“I might,” I concede. “Or I might just know what happened to him.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Huge difference.”
“And you’re not going to tell me?”
“No.” The answer comes out decisive, my eyes narrowed into thin slits.
“Why?”
“You’re not ready.”
“I’m not ready?” She laughs. It’s a sharp, bitter sound. “I’ve been ready for two years.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “You’ve been grieving. You’ve been playing the victim, but you haven’t been ready to hear the truth.”
“Stop talking in riddles!”
“This isn’t a riddle.” I lean closer, my face inches from hers. “The reality is that Ayaan got involved in things he couldn’t handle. He made choices. Bad choices, and those choices had consequences.”
“He was a good person,” she whispers.
“Good people die every day, Freya. Especially in my world.”
“He wasn’t part of your world.”
“He was the second he took that money.”
She tries to shove me away, but I hold her fast. My grip on her waist tightens, pulling her flush against me.
The contact is electric. I feel the curve of her hip, the softness of her stomach. I feel the way her breath hitches when our bodies align.
The argument hasn’t stopped, but it’s shifted. The words are becoming shorter. The pauses are becoming longer.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
I watch it happen. The involuntary flick of her gaze. The way her lips part slightly.
The air in the room seems to thicken, heavy with sudden, impossible tension. The anger is still there, but it’s mutating. It’s turning into something else. Something hotter.
“You think you can control me,” she breathes.
“I know I can.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know you want this.”
The challenge hangs in the air.
Her hand comes up, resting against my chest. Right over my heart. I can feel the heat of her palm through the cotton. I can feel the tremor in her fingers.
“Prove it,” she whispers.
My mouth crashes down on hers, claiming, consuming.
She responds instantly. Freya’s fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer. Her mouth opens under mine, her tongue meeting mine with a ferocity that matches my own.
I taste her—mint, and the lingering sweetness of tea, and something uniquely Freya. She tastes like rebellion and surrender all at once.
My hand slides from her waist to her hip, gripping her tight, grinding her against me. She moans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against my lips.
This is what I wanted. What I’ve been avoiding. What I’ve been craving.
Her.
Everything about her. Her defiance, her sharp tongue, her stubborn refusal to break. I want to consume it all. I want to strip away the layers of anger and grief until there’s nothing left but the raw, honest need underneath.
I deepen the kiss, tilting her head back, demanding more. She gives it. She arches into me, her body soft and pliant in my hands.
For a moment, the world falls away. Then, she stops.
It’s like flipping a switch. One second she’s kissing me back like her life depends on it, the next she’s shoving me away.
I stumble back a step, blinking in surprise.
She stands against the wall, chest heaving, her lips swollen and red. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mixture of horror and confusion.
“No,” she gasps. “No.”
“Freya—”
“Don’t!” She holds up a hand, backing away. “Don’t touch me.”
She turns and runs.
I watch her go, my own heart hammering against my ribs. I lift my fingers to my lips, still tasting her.
She wanted it. She did. She just isn’t ready to admit it yet.
I stand there for a long moment, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall. The silence of the penthouse returns, heavier than before.