22. Alina #2
We sit in the corner where I used to sit with my hands folded and my stomach tight, waiting for my father to finish talking to whoever he needed to impress. The table looks smaller now. The chair feels different under me. My hands shake, so I lace them together.
Mikhail watches my hands, then he reaches across and covers them with his, firm and warm.
“You’re safe,” he says.
I swallow. “Don’t.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it sound easy,” I answer. “It’s not easy.”
He nods once. “I know.”
The owner brings plates without asking. Apple strudel, still warm, cream on the side, powdered sugar dusted over the top. Hot chocolate in a thick cup, the kind I used to beg for.
I stare at it, then I laugh quietly, shocked. “She remembers.”
Mikhail’s mouth curves. “I asked.”
I pick up the cup, my hands steadier now, and I take a sip. It’s exactly how I remember, and that makes my eyes burn.
Mikhail doesn’t touch his food right away. He watches me eat first, and he does it the way he watches Oisin, attentive and controlled, catching the small things. When I get sugar on my thumb, he reaches across and wipes it with his napkin without asking.
I inhale sharply. “You do that a lot.”
He doesn’t pretend. “I notice things.”
“I know,” I say.
His gaze holds mine. “You’re still going to that meeting.”
“Yes,” I reply.
He nods once, then he finally takes a bite of strudel, as if he’s proving he can eat while the world burns. “Then tonight is ours.”
I stare at him. “Tonight is a tactic.”
He shakes his head. “Tonight is a choice.”
My pulse kicks. “Mikhail.”
He leans forward slightly. “Alina.”
The owner disappears into the back, giving us space, and the quiet presses in. Mikhail’s hand slides from mine to my wrist, and his thumb presses there like he’s checking my pulse. Then his fingers tighten, and he stands.
“Come here,” he says.
I blink. “Here?”
He nods. “Now.”
I stand on legs that don’t feel steady, and he steps close enough that the table is behind me and his body is in front of me, warm and solid. His hands slide to my waist, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
“You’re thinking,” he says.
“I’m always thinking,” I answer.
His eyes lift back to mine. “Stop for one minute.”
My breath catches. “I can’t.”
“You can,” he says, and his voice is calm, and it lands like an order that’s also a promise. “With me.”
My stomach flips. He dips his head, slow enough that I could pull away, and I don’t. His mouth touches mine, gentle at first, then firmer as my hands grip his coat like I need something to hold. He kisses me again, deeper, and heat spreads through me in a way that makes my knees soften.
His hands tighten at my waist, then he shifts me back a step so my hips press the edge of the table. The plates rattle softly. He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak against my lips.
“You’re going to win tomorrow,” he murmurs. “You’re going to walk in and control him.”
I swallow. “And you’re going to let me.”
His mouth curves. “I swore.”
I lift my chin. “Then act like it.”
His eyes darken, and his hand slides up my side, then under my jacket, palm flat against my ribs.
I gasp at the contact, and he uses it, pulling me closer, kissing me harder.
My hands move to his neck, my fingers sliding into his hair, and the gray at his temples is right under my touch, real and warm and unfairly attractive.
He makes a low sound, and it hits me hard.
I break the kiss long enough to breathe. “We’re in public.”
He glances toward the back, then back to me. “We’re alone.”
My pulse races. “Not alone enough.”
He steps closer, pinning me with his body, and his mouth drops to my jaw, then my neck, and I bite back a sound as his lips press there, slow and deliberate. His hands slide down to my hips, then he grips and lifts slightly, adjusting my position like he’s done it a hundred times.
I grab his coat. “Mikhail.”
He lifts his head, eyes locked on mine. “Tell me to stop.”
I should.
I don’t.
My fingers tug his tie loose, and his gaze drops to my hands, then returns to my face like he’s impressed and angry all at once.
He pulls me into another kiss, and it turns messy fast, breath and teeth and the quiet sound of fabric shifting as his hand slips under my shirt and his palm presses warm against my stomach.
My whole body reacts, and it’s immediate.
I hate that my mind flashes to tomorrow, to cameras and exits and Vladimir’s smile, then it flashes back to Mikhail’s mouth on mine, and the whiplash makes me dizzy.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and he rests his forehead against mine.
“This place,” he says, voice rough. “You used to come here and wish for a different life.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Don’t.”
“I’m not here to talk,” he replies, then his hands slide up, and he grips my jacket, pulling it off my shoulders with controlled impatience.
The air is cooler against my skin, and it makes me shiver.
His eyes drop again, and his voice goes lower. “We’ve got a back room.”
I blink. “You can’t be serious.”
He doesn’t smile. “I’m serious.”
My breath catches, and my body betrays me with a rush of heat.
He takes my hand firmly and he leads me toward the hallway at the back, past the counter, past the kitchen door, and the owner doesn’t appear, yet I know she knows. Mikhail opens a door with a key, and it’s a small private room with a couch and a table and a single lamp that casts warm light.
He closes the door behind us, then he turns the lock.
I stare at him, heart hammering. “This is insane.”
He steps closer. “Say stop.”
I swallow. “I can’t.”
His eyes darken, and he pulls me into his arms, then he kisses me like he’s done waiting for permission in any form. My hands clutch his shirt, then slide under it, and I feel the hard lines of him, the heat, the control barely contained.
His hand slides up my thigh, slow, then higher, and I gasp into his mouth as he grips me and lifts, placing me on the edge of the couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He breaks the kiss and looks at me, eyes sharp. “Tomorrow, you lead.”
I’m breathing hard. “And tonight?”
His mouth curves, small and dangerous. “Tonight, I do.”
He leans in again, and his hands move to the button of my jeans, then he pauses, eyes holding mine, giving me one last chance to pull away.
I don’t.
His fingers start to undo it, and his mouth drops to my throat as the first button slips free.
Then the door handle outside rattles once, softly, like someone tested it and stopped, and my whole body goes tight.
Mikhail stills, his head lifting, his eyes snapping to the door.