Chapter 4
KIREN
I remain still as the elevator doors close, my attention fixed on the space she leaves behind.
The lounge settles into silence around me, the muted hum from the ballroom below dulled by the thick walls.
My hand goes to my ribs without thought, my fingers pressing where the injury answers each breath.
I should leave. Return to the ballroom, make the expected appearances, and acknowledge the donors whose contributions fund the research that keeps Sovarin Biomedical relevant.
The gala demands certain performances, and I've mastered them all over the years.
The polished smile, the firm handshake, the carefully constructed gratitude that sounds genuine because I've practiced it until it became a reflex. But the idea of rejoining the crowd now feels wrong in a way I can’t articulate, as though the evening has been left unresolved.
I move toward the bar instead and signal the bartender for vodka.
When the glass is set in front of me, I take it and lower myself into a chair with more care than I prefer.
The leather gives softly beneath my weight as I adjust, finding an angle that doesn’t irritate the healing tissue. I lift the glass and take a slow sip.
I set it down again and lean back, allowing my spine to rest against the chair while my gaze moves across the empty lounge.
The space is designed for discretion, the lighting low enough to soften features without obscuring them entirely.
Dark wood paneling lines the walls, interrupted by abstract paintings priced well beyond practical measure.
The furniture is expensive without being ostentatious, arranged to facilitate conversation while maintaining an illusion of privacy.
It's a room built for transactions disguised as connections, and I've used it exactly as intended more times than I can count. But tonight is different.
I close my eyes briefly, replaying the last hour with the same rigor I apply to interactions worth remembering.
Her voice when she told me I shouldn't be on my feet, concern bleeding through the professional distance she tried to maintain.
The way her fingers tightened around the champagne flute when she recognized me, her knuckles blanching against the delicate glass.
The hitch in her breathing when I stepped closer, her pulse visible at her throat despite the calm she maintained with effort.
She was nervous. Not frightened, but alert in a way that suggested her instincts were working overtime to assess the threat I might represent.
I can't fault her for that. She'd be a fool to trust me.
The door opens behind me, footsteps approaching with a familiar cadence that tells me who it is before I turn my head. Mikel moves into my peripheral vision, his expression uninformative as he crosses to the opposite chair and lowers himself into it without invitation.
“She’s been gone ten minutes,” Mikel remarks.
“I’m aware.”
“Then explain why you’re sitting in an empty lounge instead of finishing your night.”
I turn my head to look at him fully, taking in the tension he carries in his shoulders despite the relaxed posture he projects. Mikel doesn't waste words, and he doesn't ask questions unless the answer matters.
“Because leaving felt wrong,” I answer honestly.
His brow lifts slightly, the only indication that my response surprises him. “Wrong how?”
I don't have an answer that makes sense, so I offer the truth instead. “I don't know.”
He studies me for a moment longer before nodding once, a small acknowledgment that he's heard what I'm not saying as much as what I am. “You're making this complicated.”
“It's already complicated,” I counter.
“Then don't make it worse.”
The advice is sound. Practical. Exactly what I would tell someone else in my position if they were foolish enough to pursue a civilian doctor with no understanding of the world I operate in and no defenses against what happens to the people within reach of me.
But the warning is irrelevant because I’ve already made the decision. I made it the moment I intercepted her after the speech, asked her to dance, and realized that watching her walk away felt intolerable in a way I can't rationalize.
“I'm going to see her again,” I tell him.
Mikel’s expression doesn’t change, but his posture shifts slightly, a subtle adjustment that tells me he’s reassessing. “When?”
“Soon.”
“Define soon.”
“I'll contact her tomorrow.”
He exhales through his nose, the sound neither approval nor disapproval. “You're certain about this?”
I meet his eyes without hesitation. “Yes.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he fixes me with the look that precedes every warning I've ever received from him. “If you're going to do this, do it right. She doesn't belong in our world and dragging her into it will destroy her.”
“I'm aware.”
“Are you?” His voice drops lower, the question striking with more force than an accusation. “Because from where I'm sitting, you're already thinking about ways to keep her close, and that means involving her whether you intend to or not.”
He's not wrong. The thought has already formed, taking shape before I could stop it. Keep her near. Protect the life she's built. Ensure that the threats circling my world never reach hers. It’s irrational, possessive, and dangerous for both of us.
I don’t care.
“I won't let anything happen to her,” I reply quietly.
Mikel leans back again, a hand passing over his face before dropping to his thigh. “You can't guarantee that.”
“No,” I agree. “But I'll make it as close to certain as I can.”
He holds my gaze for a moment before pushing to his feet, the conversation finished whether I'm ready for it to end or not. “Then you'd better hope she's stronger than she looks.”
I watch him move toward the door, his footsteps unrushed. He pauses before leaving, glancing back over his shoulder. “Leo's downstairs. He'll drive you back.”
“Tell him to wait,” I instruct. “I'm not finished yet.”
Mikel doesn't argue. He simply nods once and disappears through the door, leaving me alone again with the silence and the memory of storm-gray eyes that followed my every movement, assessing without asking permission.
I remain seated for several more minutes, allowing the ache in my ribs to fade into background noise while my thoughts organize themselves into clarity.
The gala continues below, the sounds of conversation and music drifting up through the floor in muted waves that remind me I still have obligations to fulfill before the night ends.
But the thought of returning to that crowded ballroom and engaging in the scripted pleasantries that mean nothing and accomplish less feels hollow now.
Because I've spent an hour with Dr. Rowan Hale, and everything else pales in comparison.
I push to my feet slowly, testing my balance before committing my full weight.
The pain flares again, more intense this time, and I press my hand against my side until it subsides into tolerable discomfort.
The wound is healing, but healing takes time, and time is a resource I've never had patience for.
I move toward the elevators, my stride adjusted to avoid further aggravating the injury.
The doors open immediately when I press the button, the interior empty and waiting.
I step inside and press the button for the ground floor, watching the numbers descend as the elevator carries me back toward the noise and expectations I've been avoiding all night.
When the doors open again, the ballroom greets me with a wall of sound. Laughter, music, the clink of glasses, and the rustle of expensive fabric, all of it noise layered over choices that will not remain confined to this night.
The next morning is cold, winter hanging over Charlotte with a chill that seeps through the windows and lingers in the building.
I stand in my office on the twentieth floor of Sovarin Biomedical's headquarters, staring out at the city below while steam rises from the tea I haven't touched. The skyline stretches gray and muted beneath overcast skies, the streets below already clogged with morning traffic that moves in sluggish waves. My phone sits on the desk behind me, Rowan’s number already entered and waiting.
I've been standing here for twenty minutes, debating whether reaching out this soon constitutes pursuit or impatience.
The distinction matters less than it should, but old habits persist. I've built an empire on restraint, knowing when to advance and when to withdraw, and reading situations with the same discipline I apply to negotiating contracts and eliminating threats.
This situation defies every instinct I've honed over three decades.
I turn from the window and return to my desk, lowering myself into the chair with care that's become second nature.
The wound protests less this morning, the inflammation finally responding to the antibiotics and rest I've forced myself to accept.
Another week and the discomfort will fade entirely, leaving only a scar where Rowan's hands pressed when she refused to let me bleed out in that alley.
I reach for my phone, unlock the screen, and pull up the message I drafted an hour ago. I chose text over a call because it gives her space rather than pressure, and time to consider instead of react. I won’t corner her with my voice or force a decision she hasn’t reached on her own.
I'd like to see you again. Are you free this week? -Kiren
It's direct and clear. Gives her control without demanding anything she isn't ready to offer.
I read it three more times before hitting send.
The response arrives faster than I expect, less than ten minutes later.
Rowan: I have a few hours free tomorrow afternoon. Coffee?
I consider the offer for a moment before typing my reply.