Kira
The vodka is doing its job. Three shots in and my hand is steady enough to draw but loose enough that the lines come without my overthinking them.
The drawing pad Timur promised showed up this afternoon with a set of pencils that are nicer than anything I've ever used.
Professional grade, the kind you'd find in an art supply store, not the cheap ones I buy for myself at home.
Dryden stands at the door stoically watching me.
He hasn't said a word in over an hour, which I appreciate.
The study is quieter than my room, so when I asked if I could sit somewhere else for a while, he walked me down here.
I've been working on the same drawing for forty minutes from this comfortable chaise lounge, sipping the expensive vodka.
The problem is that the drawing just isn't coming out right.
I've been working on trying to reconstruct what happened that night when Timur's friend dragged me out of that building and shoved me in his trunk.
I just can't remember the details. When I close my eyes, all I can see is the blood, which only encourages me to drink more.
I know I shouldn't, but getting lost in this memory floods me with grief.
Underneath the crime scene sketch is the drawing I finished an hour ago. I drew a picture of Timur, done from memory the same way, but that one came easier. It's a good likeness but not my best work. Still, when I look at it, I see him, not a stranger.
That word makes my pencil pause on the pad, halted mid-line.
He's not a stranger to me anymore. That feels odd or even surreal to me, that I've found a rapport with my captor so strong, I'd say I know him.
It's a beguiling sensation to think of him that way, like he's someone I know now, and the way he almost kissed me the other day brings a tiny smile to my lips.
So I down another shot of vodka to wash it away and try to focus again.
But after a few minutes, Timur walks in and I watch his eyes move from me to the pad to the pencils scattered on the chaise beside me. He doesn't comment on the vodka bottle on the side table, though it's noticeably lighter than it was when Sonya delivered it.
"You've been busy," he says, lifting both eyebrows. His expression is relaxed, almost pleasant.
"Well, you gave me the pencils... I do enjoy drawing." My eyes feel heavier than normal, though I don’t feel like I'm too drunk to have a coherent conversation, but I am feeling buzzed.
And he almost smiles at my comment. He walks to the cabinet near the desk and pours himself a drink, something dark from a heavy bottle, and then comes over and stands a few feet from the chaise, standing over me as he sips from his glass.
"Can I see?" His eyes are tired, like he's had a long day too, which I understand. His business is a tough one. Probably spends all day giving people a hard time.
The drawing facing up is him. I hesitate for a second, then turn the pad around.
His expression shifts when he registers what he's looking at, and he steps closer and tilts his head, studying the image.
It's odd watching your art be examined for the first time by someone else anyway, but when you've drawn a portrait of someone, it's awkward. I feel like cringing.
"That's me," he says.
"Don't let it go to your head." I grin and feel my cheeks warming as he takes the pad from my hands, gently, and holds it at arm's length.
"This is really good, Kira. You have real talent."
"I've been drawing since I was a kid. It's the only thing that ever made my brain shut up." Letting him in on my little secret immediately makes me feel like I've overshared, so my head dips, but I say nothing.
He hands the pad back and I set it face down on my lap. But he's watching me now carefully, still hovering. I'm not sure what he wants, or if he's confused why I'm not in the room. When he speaks, I look up at him. "You're quiet tonight."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." He crouches and rests his hand on the corner of the chaise, careful not to touch me. When I look him in the eye, I can tell he's not going to let this go, and he's only been kind to me, after all.
But I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling without giving away more than I should. The vodka's made me soft around the edges and the drawing brought everything back to the surface that I've been pushing down since I got here.
"Can I show you something?" I ask, hesitant to let my inner world show but aching for someone to comfort me.
When he nods, I flip the pad back to the other drawing.
The room. The table. The chairs. The doorway blown open and the shattered glass I've crosshatched across the floor.
It's not finished. There are gaps where my memory failed and shapes that aren't quite right, but the bones of it are there.
It feels raw and painful, and my eyes flood with tears so I close them.
"Oh, Kira," he coos, setting his glass on the floor next to the chaise. He takes the pad and sets it aside and then rises, perching on the edge of the chaise to sit next to me. Meanwhile, I’m devolving into a puddle of emotion.
"I keep seeing it. Every time I close my eyes, it's right there. And I thought if I could get it out of my head and onto paper, it might stop..." I can't finish my sentence and I'm not sure I want to. But feeling his arms pull me in feels comforting.
"Is it working?"
"No."
He holds me for a second, rocking me gently as I sob, and then says, "You were never supposed to be there. You have to know that. We were targeting our enemies... They're taking what they shouldn’t and—"
"But I was."
"I know," he says without explanation. "And I can't undo that. I wish I could."
When I pull back to look down at my image, I see his hand instead, rising to cradle my cheek. He turns my face up so I'm looking him in the eye, tears and all, and he frowns.
"I am sorry," he says, "for all of it."
His thumb moves across my cheekbone, catching the wet trail the tear left behind. It's such a small thing, but tenderness in it makes my body warm significantly. My heart is beating so hard, I'm sure he can feel it. He's so close and his eyes are fixed on my lips.
"Would it be okay if I kissed you?" he asks, and I don't know how to respond. I don’t want him to pull away. I feel so comforted. But kissing means something, right?
He doesn't wait for an answer, anyway. Timur starts to lean in, eyes fluttering shut just like they did the other day in the kitchen, and this time, there's no phone to interrupt us.
His lips brush over mine tentatively, like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away, but I don’t.
My lips part under his and he emits a low rumble in his throat.
I taste his whiskey and I'm sure he tastes the vodka on my tongue.
But he shifts closer on the edge of the chaise, one knee sinking into the cushion beside my hip.
His hand stays on my cheek, thumb stroking a slow line that catches more tears as I lean into the touch without thinking.
My sweater suddenly feels too warm and scratchy on my skin.
“I haven't stopped thinking about you in days," he whispers before he kisses me again, deeper this time but still gentle.
His other hand finds my waist and my sweater bunches under his palm as he pulls me a fraction closer.
I let my own hesitant hands rise and rest on his chest where I can feel his heartbeat under my palm.
His chest is pounding, like he's nervous to do this.
And I'm right there with him. My mind is going a million miles an hour.
What am I doing? Is it the liquor or did he cast a spell over me?
I'm not a foolish young girl who throws herself at men.
I'm a grown woman with a brain in my head.
But he's so charming and gentle, and he's good-looking, not to mention he wants me.
Timur breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against mine. His breathing is already uneven. “I thought about kissing you the other day,” he says, “in the kitchen.”
I swallow hard. The memory of that almost-kiss flashes behind my eyelids, but it’s softer now, tangled with my unsettled emotion. “Me too,” I whisper. I wanted him to kiss me. It was like magic in the air or something.
His fingers slide from my cheek down to my neck, tracing the line of my jaw before he leans in again.
This kiss has more weight. Our mouths move together in exploration, and I taste the faint salt of my own tears mixed with him.
When his tongue brushes mine, a small shiver runs through me and he growls as his hand pulls me closer, almost leaning me backward.
The chaise creaks softly as he moves fully onto it, careful not to crush me. One arm braces beside my head while the other hand slips under the hem of my sweater, palm flat against the bare skin of my lower back. His touch is warm, slightly callused at the edges. I arch into it without meaning to.
“Your skin's so soft,” he breathes against my lips.
"Can I feel your skin too?" My core aches, screaming at me that I'm soaking my panties as I slide my hands up his shirt.
He sits back just enough to let me. My fingers work the top button open, then the next.
Each one reveals a little more of his chest, the faint shadow of dark hair, the way his muscles shift as he breathes.
He watches my face the whole time, and his fingers stroke my side, just above my hip.
When the shirt is halfway undone, he reaches down and moves the drawing pad and pencils, setting them on the floor next to my glass and his. Then he’s back, kissing me while his hands slide higher under my sweater. The knit rides up my ribs. Cool air touches my skin and I shiver again.
“Lift,” he says quietly.