Chapter 9 Rowan #3
He disappears briefly down the hall, returning with two short glasses and a bottle cradled in his hand. The label is minimalist, the glass thick and heavy, and the stopper cut crystal. He sets it on the counter between us.
“Vodka?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“I didn’t take you for a collector,” I say, watching the way he handles it carefully.
“One bottle at a time,” he replies. “Different places. Different distilleries. It’s… a habit.”
He pours without measuring, the liquid clear as water, gleaming briefly before going still. The scent is clean when he slides a glass toward me. No burn or sharpness. I take a sip and pause, surprised by how smooth it is, and how it warms rather than scorches.
“This is dangerous,” I say.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “That one’s from Latvia. A small batch. It doesn’t announce itself.”
“Like you,” I note before I can stop myself.
He meets my gaze over the rim of his glass, something thoughtful passing through his eyes before he looks away.
We sit at the counter, our shoulders not quite touching, with the city stretched out beyond the windows.
He tells me about the collection without bragging.
A bottle from Prague that was gifted after a negotiation.
One from Helsinki, he bought himself. Another from Moscow he hasn’t opened yet.
“My mother used to say vodka should never be loud,” he adds. “She believed if you needed it to make noise, you were drinking for the wrong reason.”
The mention of her alters the air. Not heavy, just different.
“She taught me to cook,” he continues, his dark eyes fixed on the glass in his hand.
“Simple food. Things that could be made well without excess. She valued control, but not cruelty.” His thumb traces the rim once, a small, unconscious movement.
“She didn’t belong in my father’s world. She survived it as long as she could.”
He’s told me before how she died during childbirth. How she never made it out of the room, only his sister. I don’t reopen that door. Some losses don’t require questions to be understood.
I lift my glass instead, a quiet acknowledgment of what isn’t said. “To quiet things,” I say.
He clinks his glass against mine, the sound soft. “To knowing when to keep them that way.”
We move toward the sofa without quite deciding to. It happens gradually, our glasses abandoned on the counter, and the city lights pulling us forward like gravity. When I lower myself onto the cushion, he sits beside me, close enough that I feel the warmth of him along my arm.
That’s when I notice the watch. It isn’t modern. The leather band is worn smooth, softened by years of use, and the face is old-fashioned in a way that feels intentional rather than ornamental. The metal casing bears faint scratches, not careless damage but the kind earned through time.
“I didn’t realize you wore something like that,” I observe.
His eyes follow mine. “Yes.”
“It’s antique,” I add.
“It was my father’s.”
Something in his voice changes. Not darkening, narrowing.
“He collected them,” Kiren continues. “Mechanical watches. Said they mattered because they could be broken and still repaired. Unlike most things.” His thumb brushes the edge of the face, reverent without sentimentality.
“When he died, I kept his. I added mine to the collection. Not to replace his, to honor it.”
I imagine his father’s hands fastening the same band, checking the time with the same restrained motion. Legacy worn quietly at the wrist.
“That’s a lot to hold,” I say quietly.
He looks at me fully then. “Yes.”
The space between us changes, charged in a way I can’t ignore. His hand rests along the back of the sofa, close enough that my shoulder nearly brushes his knuckles. When I move, barely an inch, the contact happens anyway.
A breath catches. Mine or his, I’m not sure. His fingers slide along my arm, tentative at first, then more certain when I don’t pull away. The touch is warm. My pulse responds immediately, a quick flutter beneath my skin that I don’t try to hide.
“Kiska,” he says quietly.
I look up, and that’s all it takes. His hand lifts to my jaw, gentle but unyielding, tilting my face until our eyes meet. The closeness steals my breath. I’m suddenly aware of every inch of space between us and how easily it could disappear.
When he kisses me, it’s slow and careful. Not claiming. Just testing the shape of my mouth against his, as if asking rather than taking. I answer without thinking.
The world narrows to warmth and breath and the pressure of his hand at my waist. His thumb grazes the edge of my ribs, sending sensation curling inward. I lean closer, the line I’ve been guarding thinning fast.
Then the intercom crackles to life.
“Security to penthouse,” a voice announces. “Ethan Hale has arrived and is headed up.”
The moment breaks cleanly, like glass snapping under pressure.
Kiren stands up at once, his composure sliding into place as if it never left. “Your brother.”
“Yes,” I manage, my voice strained despite my best effort.
“I’ll greet him,” Kiren says, already moving toward the door. “Then I’ll give you privacy.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone.
Minutes later, the apartment door opens again to Ethan, still in his EMT uniform, fatigue lining his face beneath relief.
“Ro,” he says, pulling me into a careful hug. “I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re okay.”
“I am,” I tell him, and I mean it.
He starts talking about his shift, about a messy call and a stubborn patient, his voice familiar and comforting. I listen and nod in the right places. But part of me is still on the sofa. Still tracing the warmth where Kiren’s hand had been. Still remembering the way his mouth felt against mine.
And no matter how hard I focus on my brother’s voice, my thoughts drift back to Kiren, struggling to reconcile the man who accelerates my heartbeat with the danger he undeniably represents.