Chapter 23
Kiryan
The second she looked back, I knew I'd been made.
Elena sat on a little folding stool by the riverbank, her easel aimed upstream on the Hudson. The wind messed up her hazel hair, and she tucked it behind her ear like it was nothing. Her eyes didn't go to the ridge or the water. They cut straight across two hundred yards and pinned my car in place.
I didn't duck.
That "date" hadn't fixed a damn thing. She'd watched me kneel. She'd heard me out. And she'd still left me with one sentence. "Stay the hell out of my life."
So I hadn't called again. I hadn't shown up under her apartment. I hadn't tried to drag her back to me. I'd only swapped out the obvious security and followed her myself out here.
That didn't exactly count as keeping my word.
For the past two weeks, I'd used a handful of unrelated accounts to buy every painting she was willing to sell, paying obscene prices, hanging them all over the manor. She didn't know. She also didn't know I'd been at every show she'd done.
I used to care about one thing—what it cost. Now I caught myself studying composition, brushwork, why she left blue hiding inside gray, why she pressed shadow over the brightest spots.
I wanted into her world. But what I did best was still command and take.
I learned respect too late.
Elena set her brush down and stood.
A few minutes later, someone knocked on the driver-side window.
I lowered the glass. She was breathing a little hard from walking fast. Her freckles looked sharper in the sun. Her eyes looked dead cold.
"Why are you following me?"
"To make sure you are safe."
"I didn't ask you to."
"I know."
"You promised you wouldn't force me again."
"I am not going to get close. I am not going to bother you." I kept both hands on the wheel. "If you don't want me here, I'll leave. Right now."
She looked like she hadn't expected me to agree that fast. Her mouth loosened for half a second.
"Of course I don't want you here. And from now on, don't follow me."
My chest locked up.
The old me would've pulled out a polished excuse, used "danger" to steal her right to say no.
I just looked at her. No argument.
"Got it."
I started the car and drove off under her stare.
In the rearview, she stood where she was. No wave. No second glance.
I really did drive three miles.
Then my plainclothes guy called.
"Sir, she packed up and headed north to the old docks."
"That isn't the spot."
"No. It's remote. Signal's garbage. If we get closer, she'll catch it."
I tightened my grip. At the next intersection, a right turn took me back to the city. A left turn took me to the docks.
She'd just told me not to follow her. I'd heard every word.
The blinker clicked three times.
I turned left.
It was crossing a line. A grown man was supposed to take a woman's no and live with it, not turn worry into another set of cuffs.
But the old docks had seen robberies. Matteo's people were still moving around the city. If I let something happen to her, all that "respect" would amount to a pretty tombstone.
I sent two guys to hold the road exit and cut in on foot through an abandoned path. Wet mud sucked at my shoes. I hadn't had to hide from a woman's eyes in years.
The slap of river water against rotten pilings grew louder.
Then a young man laughed.
"Come on, sweetheart. Don't be like that. We just wanna see what you painted."
A second voice, thick with booze, followed. "Maybe she can paint us. Naked. How 'bout that?"
Blood rushed into my ears.
I shoved through the last curtain of brush.
Elena stood at her easel with the river behind her. Three men circled her, empty beer cans rolling at their feet. The closest one was flushed red, his hand reaching for her canvas.
She threw up an arm. "Don't touch me!"
"Relax." He grabbed her wrist. "We're friendly."
"She told you not to touch her."
My voice stayed low.
All three turned. Surprise flickered in Elena's eyes, then anger lit up. The young guy still had her.
He sized up my suit, the fact my hands were empty. Alcohol handed him courage he didn't deserve.
"Get the fuck outta here, old man."
Elena's gaze snapped to my face, like she was afraid those words would make the river run red.
The man grinned and tightened his fingers.
I stepped in, caught his thumb, and bent it out. The laugh turned into a scream. I ripped his hand off Elena and shoved him aside.
The second guy swung.
I tilted away and drove a fist into his ribs, then grabbed the back of his neck and stopped his face inches from a rotten piling.
"Move again, and you'll sober up at the bottom of the river."
The third froze.
"Pick them up. Now. Get the hell out."
He hauled the others. The first guy clutched his wrist and spat a curse. I looked at him once, and he swallowed the rest.
When their footsteps died off, I turned to Elena.
Her wrist was red. My gut felt like someone had jammed a piece of hot iron into it.
"Let me see."
I reached for her. She flinched back half a step.
That tiny distance hit harder than any insult.
My hand stopped in midair. I drew it back slowly. "Did they hurt you?"
"No." She rubbed her wrist. "You got here fast."
"I was nearby."
"Because you never really left."
"I left."
She lifted a brow.
"And came back," I admitted.
"So you didn't listen to a word I said."
"I heard every word."
"That makes it worse."
"It does."
The anger she'd been ready to throw at me got jammed up by that one syllable. After a few seconds, she looked toward where they'd gone.
"If you hadn't come back..."
"You would have gotten yourself out." My eyes dropped to the pepper spray by her paint box, half sunk in mud, safety already flipped off.
Her shoulders eased a fraction. "He knocked it out of my hand."
"Next time keep it in your pocket. If someone gets close, back into open space first. Don't let the river cut off your exit."
Her eyes turned sharp.
Orders. Always fucking orders.
I crushed the urge to keep telling her what to do. "Sorry. Habit."
She glanced at the old scar on my jaw, then down at my shoes, caked in mud.
"You crawled through the woods wearing that?"
"My car was parked far out."
"So I wouldn't see it?"
"So you wouldn't get pissed."
Her mouth twitched, so light it could've been my imagination.
I didn't use it as an opening. I didn't step closer.
I bent, picked up the spray, clicked the safety back on, and set it where her hand could find it fast. Then I straightened her easel. The river on the canvas ran gray-blue. The lower right corner was smeared.
"Can you fix it?"
"Yeah. The canvas didn't tear."
She scraped off the mud with her palette knife and laid color back down. I stood beside her, far enough not to crowd her. The wind blew a few strands of hair across her lips. The red mark on her wrist kept stabbing at my eyes.
"Thank you," she said suddenly.
I thought I'd misheard.
She didn't look at me. "For what just happened."
"Don't thank me."
"I don't like you following me."
"I know."
"But I'm not going to pretend you didn't help."
She finally turned her face. The wind tugged her shirt collar open, showing a small strip of pale collarbone. My gaze held there for less than a second before it snapped back to her eyes.
She saw it.
Her breathing went shallow. Her fingers tightened around the brush.
Heat ran up my spine.
My body remembered her—how she'd weighed in my arm, how she always held her breath before a kiss. Memory wasn't permission. Want sure as hell wasn't.
I stepped back.
Something unreadable crossed her eyes.
"Next Saturday," she said, "I have a gallery show."
My heart slammed once, hard. I'd dealt with shootings, betrayals, port wars. No invitation had ever made me fight my face like that.
"I know."
She narrowed her eyes. "Of course you do. You know everything."
"I only know the public date." I paused. "I don't know if you want me there."
She tapped the end of her brush against the palette.
"If you want to come, you can."
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't a promise. It barely qualified as welcome.
But it was the first time she'd cracked the door open.
I almost told her I'd bought every piece she'd put up for sale. Almost asked her where they should hang. Almost let her know that house that had once choked her was full of her light now.
I held it in.
The first drop of rain smacked the edge of the canvas.
Elena looked up. Another drop hit her cheek. In less than ten seconds, the rain swept over the river like a gray wall rolling in.
The downpour hit without warning.
She grabbed the easel. I yanked off my jacket and threw it over the wet paint. A gust tried to lift the canvas; I pinned the frame with one hand and grabbed her paint box with the other.
"My car's just outside the trees. Come on."
She clearly wanted to argue. Lightning split the sky across the river. The thunder that followed shook the boards under our feet.
"You can stay mad at me," I said, wrapping my jacket tighter around her painting, "but this rain will ruin it."
She bit her lip, snatched up her folding stool. "Fine. Lead."
We ran into the woods. In seconds, rain soaked through my shirt and turned the ground slick. Elena's foot slid on the slope; I caught her at the waist and pulled her back into me.
She hit my chest.
The world narrowed to rain and her breath breaking.
Wet fabric clung to her slim body. My palm pressed through her shirt at her side; I felt her go rigid in an instant. She tipped her face up, rain tracking down her lashes and nose. Those hazel eyes were too close.
"You steady?"
My voice came out rougher than the thunder.
She nodded, and I was a beat too slow letting go.
Her hand was still flat on my chest, right over the double-headed eagle tattoo. My heartbeat punched into her palm. Her fingertips curled once.
My head told me to back off.
Instinct told me to pull her closer.
I let her go.
The rest of the way, I kept to her outside. Every time she wobbled, I touched her elbow, just enough to stabilize her, then I released the second she found her footing.
By the time we reached the car, my jacket was soaked through, but the painting inside was safe. I set it in the backseat and opened the passenger door for her.
She was shivering, still standing in the rain. "I can call an Uber."
"No signal out here."
"Then I'll wait until it lets up."
Thunder cracked again.
I looked at her.
"Don't," she said, raising a hand to stop me. "I know. This isn't the time to be stubborn."
"Good."
"Do you have to make that face? Like you've finally gotten someone to listen?"
"I am appreciating a rare event."
She shot me a look and climbed in.
Rain hammered the roof, sealing us into a cramped, dim space. She shoved her wet hair over one shoulder. Paint, rain, and the familiar scent of her filled my lungs.
My hands tightened on the wheel, and I started the car.
I'd always known her address. I'd never let myself come close.
The storm slowed the drive back. I cranked the heat and pulled a clean towel from the back.
"Why do you have that in your car?"
"Feodor insisted on emergency supplies."
"He doesn't seem like a towel guy."
"He just doesn't want to deal with my mood when I get sick."
She dried her hair, a small smile flickering at her mouth.
At a red light, I reached over to angle her side vent higher. She lifted her hand at the same time. Our fingertips touched.
She froze. So did I.
Warm air slid through our overlapping fingers. Her skin was cold. Mine lit up like a red-hot wire yanked from my hand to my spine.
I pulled back. The light went green. Neither of us said a word about it.
When I stopped under her building, my fingertips still burned.
The rain hadn't eased. I took the painting; she grabbed her paint box. Ten steps to the door and we got soaked all over again.
The old elevator crawled to the top floor. In the metal reflection, my shirt clung to my shoulders and back; she had the towel wrapped around her, wet hair hanging over her chest, her nose red from the cold.
Her apartment was small. An easel jammed by the window, wet canvases leaning against the bookshelf, more stacked near a wooden step ladder.
It was all Elena.
I set the painting where she told me and checked it over. No damage. Her shoulders loosened.
"The bathroom's down there." She pointed down the hall. "Go shower first."
"You first."
"This is my place. I have clothes. You don't."
"I can go home."
"If you go out there now and get sick tomorrow, Olga will think I tried to murder you."
"She would have yelled at me first."
"And then she would have yelled at me."
"Fair."
She lifted her chin. "So go. Now. Shower."
I towered over her. She stood in her own apartment and ordered me around like she meant it—no shrinking back, no dodging my eyes, no waiting for permission.
I walked past her, my shoulder brushing hers. Just once. Her breath caught. My hand paused on the bathroom doorknob.
"Kiryan."
I looked back.
"Today... thank you."
She didn't say she forgave me.
I didn't get greedy.
"Go change out of the wet clothes."
I closed the bathroom door.
Hot water hit my shoulders, and my skin woke back up. I unbuttoned my soaked shirt. I'd just gotten it halfway off when her voice came through the door.
"I found a robe. I bought it too big."
I undid my belt and my waistband.
"Bring it in."
Silence for two seconds. "You can't come out and get it yourself?"
"The floor's wet."
"Then open the door a crack."
"It isn't locked."
More silence.
The handle turned slowly.
Elena stepped in holding a white robe. She'd changed into soft lounge clothes. Her damp hair fell over her shoulders. Steam rolled toward her; she lifted her eyes and looked straight at my half-removed shirt.
Then her gaze dropped.
My chest was bare. The double-headed eagle tattoo was slick with moisture. My button and zipper were already undone.
Her whole face went red in an instant.
And still—her eyes took half a beat too long to move away.
"Why did you call me in here when you were undressing?" she snapped at the wall, her voice pitched higher than normal.
"It is a bathroom."
"I know that."
"Then you should have guessed what I was doing."
She turned like she was about to tear into me, then her eyes brushed my stomach and jerked away again.
My mouth pulled into a grin I couldn't stop.
"It isn't like you hadn't seen it before," I said low. "What are you getting shy about now?"
Her spine went stiff. "That was different."
"How is it different?"
"Shut up."
The robe flew at my face.
I caught it. She spun on her heel, ears bright red, and bolted out.
"It's oversized," she tossed over her shoulder. "It should fit. Barely."
The bathroom door slammed.
I looked down at the robe in my hands. On her it was loose; on me it would be a tight squeeze. The fabric was soft and still held the scent of her detergent—clean, warm.
I lifted it to my nose and took a slow breath.
Outside, her hurried footsteps retreated.
I stared at the closed door, and the smile finally broke free.
She didn't know I'd spent half a month learning restraint, learning to respect the line she'd drawn.
But all it took was her blushing and looking one half-second too long—and that line lit on fire inside my body.