Chapter 9 Rowan #2
“I was,” I answer, lifting my glass again.
“Rowan's amazing in emergencies,” Lila interjects. “She's saved so many lives. I wish I had her calm under pressure.”
Ivan turns that assessing gaze back to me. “What did you specialize in, before emergency medicine?”
“I didn't specialize. I went straight into emergency after residency. Lila did too.”
“Fascinating.” He leans forward slightly. “You must see all manner of cases. Trauma, overdoses, gunshot wounds.”
“Sometimes.”
The exchange feels oddly structured, like a line of questioning rather than curiosity.
His tone stays conversational, but the focus is narrow, steering instead of wandering.
I notice Lila hasn’t jumped in the way she usually does.
She hasn’t softened the edges or redirected the moment.
She’s quiet beside him, watching instead of participating.
It leaves me with the uncomfortable sense of being evaluated, each answer filed away rather than acknowledged.
Not a red flag, just enough dissonance to make my shoulders draw back a fraction.
Ivan circles the rim of his glass with one finger, not looking at me as he speaks. “Do you ever have patients who won't talk to the police? Even when they should?”
There it is. The real interest. The reason this lunch suddenly feels less like meeting a boyfriend and more like an interrogation wrapped in pleasant conversation.
“Occasionally,” I admit. “But patient confidentiality is important.”
“Of course, of course.” Ivan smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I'm just curious about your work. Lila speaks so highly of you.”
“She’s being generous,” I say. “I think just as highly of Lila’s work. She’s one of the best physicians I know.”
The rest of lunch passes in surface conversation, but I can't shake the feeling that Ivan is cataloging every word and reaction. When Lila excuses herself to use the restroom, he turns to me with an expression that's lost some of its warmth.
“You're very careful with your words,” he notes.
“I'm a doctor. Accuracy matters.”
“Indeed.” He studies me for a long time. “Lila is lucky to have a friend like you. So loyal.”
It sounds like a compliment, but it feels like a warning.
When Lila returns, I make excuses about needing to get back to the hospital. Leo appears at my elbow before I even reach the door, and I'm grateful for his silent, imposing presence.
In the car, I stare out the window, trying to process what just happened.
“You okay, Doc?” Leo asks.
“Fine.” Then, because the lie feels too obvious, I add, “That was weird, right? He was weird?”
“Did the guy ask a lot of questions?”
“Yes. About the accident and my patients.” I turn to look at Leo.
“I think you should tell Kiren about him.”
I know he's right. But the idea of dragging Lila into this makes my stomach turn. She has no idea what’s been going on, and she seems so happy with Ivan.
Back at the apartment, I pace the living room with my phone in hand.
I should call Kiren. I should tell him about Ivan and the questions that felt too specific.
Instead, I try to convince myself I'm reading too much into it. That Ivan is just curious, and Lila really did find someone special. It’s just my paranoia making me see threats where there are none.
The elevator dings, and Kiren steps out, earlier than usual. One look at my face and his expression hardens.
“What happened?”
So much for convincing myself it's nothing.
I tell him about lunch, about Ivan, and the questions that felt wrong. Kiren listens without interrupting, his stillness more unnerving than any outward reaction.
When I finish, he remains quiet.
“Lila,” he finally remarks. “She's been seeing this man for a month?”
“That's what she told me.”
His eyes meet mine. “A month. Right around the time of Alexei’s murder.”
My breath hitches. “No. No, there's no way. Lila wouldn't…she doesn't know anything about what happened.”
“You don't think it's suspicious that she suddenly has a new boyfriend who's very interested in your patients and the accident?”
“Lila is my friend.” But even as I protest, doubt creeps in. “She wouldn't be involved in this.
“Perhaps not willingly.” Kiren moves to the window, looking out at the city. “But coincidences are rarely coincidental in my world.”
“Your world isn't my world,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.
He looks back at me, and there's something almost sad in his expression. “It is now, Rowan. Whether you want it to be or not.”
I sink onto the couch, tension gathering in my limbs. My independence, control, and certainty about who I can trust are slipping away, replaced by fear, doubt, and the terrifying realization that I don't know how to protect myself or the people I care about.
Kiren sits beside me, close enough that I feel less alone.
“I'll look into him,” he promises quietly. “Discreetly. If he's innocent, Lila will never know we checked.”
“And if he's not?”
“Then I'll handle it.”
The calm certainty in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it's almost comforting.
“I don’t want Lila anywhere near this,” I say, the words firm before I have time to soften them. “She wouldn’t get mixed up in something like this. And I won’t have her hurt because of me.”
His eyes hold mine for a moment longer.
“She won’t be,” he replies.
I nod once, accepting the promise even as unease lingers. Whatever this is, Lila doesn’t belong in it. I’m certain of that.
I close my eyes, letting myself lean into Kiren's solid presence.
Outside, the city sprawls in the gathering dusk, full of secrets, danger, and people who want things I don't understand.
And here, in this beautiful cage, I'm starting to wonder if safety and freedom can ever really coexist, or if choosing one means sacrificing the other forever.
“I'm frustrated.” I face him now, looking into those dark eyes. “I appreciate what you're doing, I do. But I'm not used to being watched constantly. I'm not used to living in a place where I'm afraid to touch anything because it probably costs more than my student loans.”
“You can touch whatever you want.” There's almost amusement in his tone.
“That's not the point.”
“What is the point, moya?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning I'm not sure I want to unpack. Because the point is that this feels too intimate. The point is that every time he shows up, I'm hyperaware of him in a way that has nothing to do with gratitude or fear.
“The point is I had a life before all this,” I tell him. “I had independence. Control.”
“And now you have safety.” His expression doesn't change. “Given the choice, which would you prefer?”
I want to argue, but I can't. Not when there's truth in what he offers.
“I should get dinner,” I announce, needing distance from whatever this moment is becoming.
“I brought dinner.”
“You brought dinner?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, Kiren turns toward the kitchen with the same relaxed confidence he brings to everything else, as if my surprise is expected and therefore unremarkable.
“I brought ingredients,” he corrects calmly. “Dinner implies completion.”
I follow, despite myself, leaning against the counter as he shrugs out of his jacket and rolls the sleeves of his black tailored shirt to his forearms. The movement is familiar, fluid in a way that suggests habit.
He washes his hands thoroughly, then reaches into the refrigerator.
Olive oil. Fresh herbs bundled in a damp paper towel.
A cut of salmon already portioned, a bowl of cherry tomatoes, garlic, and a lemon scored cleanly down the middle.
“You can cook,” I say, more statement than question.
“Yes.”
The simplicity of the answer makes me huff a quiet breath of disbelief. “I don’t know why that surprises me.”
He glances at me briefly, the corner of his mouth hinting at amusement. “Because you assume control requires delegation.”
“Because most men who live like this don’t stand over a stove,” I counter.
He heats the pan, the oil shimmering as it warms, with a smooth turn of his wrist. The scent blooms instantly, rich and bold, filling the apartment in a way nothing else has since I arrived.
He seasons the salmon carefully, not heavy-handed, then lowers it into the pan skin-side down.
The sizzle is immediate. He doesn’t crowd the pan and doesn’t rush.
“I learned early,” he says, his attention on the food. “Reliance is a vulnerability.”
I watch him move around the kitchen, tasting as he goes, adjusting salt, and adding a squeeze of lemon at the last moment.
He sautés the tomatoes until they blister and collapse, folds in spinach until it wilts just enough, and finishes everything with fresh herbs torn by hand rather than chopped.
It’s quiet work. There’s something unexpectedly human about watching him do something that isn’t about power or protection.
When he plates the food, it’s simple and thoughtful. No garnish for show, just balance.
We eat at the small dining table near the windows, the city glowing beyond the glass. The salmon is perfect. Crisp skin and tender center. The vegetables are bright and clean, the flavors layered without competing. I don’t bother hiding my surprise.
“This is… really good,” I admit.
He lifts his eyes to mine, searching my face as if determining whether I mean it. “I don’t do things halfway.”
“I’m noticing.”
For a while, we eat in companionable quiet that doesn’t demand to be filled. I realize halfway through the meal that my shoulders have lowered, and my breathing has slowed. I feel at ease.
Afterward, he clears the plates before I can protest, rinsing and loading the dishwasher with the same attention he brings to everything else. I stand nearby, unsure what to do with my hands, my awareness of him returning.