NINA #2
My heart stumbles. I keep my voice steady. “How?”
Luka is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “As mine.”
I should object.
I should remind him that I’m not a possession, that we had this conversation, that I made rules, that I have a career and a brother and a life I’m trying not to hand over to him piece by piece.
But his voice isn’t possessive in the way I expect.
It’s rough. Almost restrained.
As if he knows the word is dangerous and still cannot find one closer to the truth.
I lift my head. “You can’t say things like that.”
Luka says, “I know.”
“Then don’t,” I say.
Luka says, “I’m trying.”
“Try harder,” I say, but my voice is too soft to make it a real warning.
His eyes drop to my mouth. I know he wants to kiss me.
I want it too.
But for once, he does not take it immediately. He waits. And that waiting undoes me more than the kiss would have.
I rise onto my toes and kiss him first.
It’s gentle at the start, because we are in a park and because his shoulder hurts and because the night has already asked too much of both of us. His mouth moves against mine slowly, one hand at my waist, the other still holding my hand like we are dancing even though we have stopped moving.
The kiss deepens only a little.
When I pull back, he rests his forehead against mine for a second.
Luka says, “I should take you home.”
I breathe out. “Yes.”
Neither of us moves.
Luka says, “Soon.”
I laugh quietly. “Your security is going to find us by helicopter.”
Luka sighs. “They don’t have one.”
On the drive back home, quiet between us is comfortable now.
Every now and then, Luka glances at me, and every time he does, I feel the same strange pull in my chest that started near the fountain when he asked me to dance.
It is not dramatic from the outside. I’m only sitting in a car beside a man who has made my life impossible.
But inside, something has shifted, and I don’t know how to put it back.
The security car is behind us again.
Luka ignores it.
I look at the side mirror and see the headlights following at a careful distance. “They’re not going to let you forget this.”
Luka says, “No.”
I say, “You deserve it.”
Luka says, “Probably.”
I turn my head toward him. “Did Luka Kazan just admit fault twice in one night?”
Luka says, “Don’t get used to it.”
I smile despite myself and look back out of the window.
The building appears too soon.
Luka pulls up near the entrance, and the security car stops behind us. One of his men gets out first, but Luka raises a hand slightly, and the man pauses near the curb instead of moving toward my door.
I notice that.
He’s trying.
Luka turns off the engine and looks at me. “I will walk you up.”
I shake my head. “No.”
His jaw tightens at once. “Nina.”
I say, “You said you would take me home, not escort me to my bed like a suspicious father.”
Luka says, “That’s a terrible comparison.”
I say, “Then stop behaving in ways that invite it.”
He looks up at my building, then back at me. “At least let Sergei check the hallway.”
I say, “No.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
I know what he wants to say. He wants to remind me about Roman, the gala, Misha, everything sitting under the surface of the night. I can almost see the words arranging themselves behind his eyes.
But he stops himself. “Text me when you’re inside.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
Luka says, “Yes.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you ill?”
Luka says, “I’m respecting your boundary.”
I say, “You sound pained.”
Luka says, “I am.”
The laugh escapes before I can stop it.
His mouth softens when he hears it, and that little change hits me harder than it should. He looks less like the man who owns rooms and more like the man who danced with me beside an empty fountain because he did not get the chance to do it properly at the gala.
I gather my purse and open the car door before I lose my nerve.
Luka gets out at the same time, because of course he does, but he stays by the driver’s side and does not come around to help me. I can tell it costs him.
I step onto the pavement and smooth my dress down.
The night air feels colder now.
I look across the roof of the car at him. “Goodnight, Luka.”
Luka says, “Goodnight, Nina.”
For a second, neither of us moves from where we are.
Then I lift my hand and wave at him.
It feels stupidly normal.
A woman waving goodnight after a date.
Luka stands beside his car, watching me with his hands at his sides and his tuxedo jacket open now. The streetlight catches the silver at his temples. He looks tired, watchful, and entirely too beautiful for my peace of mind.
I turn away before I do something idiotic like walk back to him.
Inside the lobby, the night guard looks up from his desk and nods.
I nod back. The elevator takes too long.
I check my reflection in the mirrored doors and nearly laugh at myself. My lipstick is softer than it was when we left for the gala, my eyes look too bright, and my expression belongs to someone who has no idea what she is going to do with her own life.
When the elevator arrives, I step inside and press my floor.
My phone buzzes before the doors close.
Luka.
Inside?
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling when I type back.
Elevator. Relax.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Unlikely.
I press the phone against my chest for one second, because apparently I’m pathetic now.
The elevator opens on my floor.
The hallway is quiet.
At first, nothing seems wrong.
The lights are on, the carpet is clean, and the air smells faintly of floor cleaner and someone’s dinner from another apartment. I walk toward my door with my purse tucked under one arm, already thinking about removing my heels and washing my face.
Then I slow down.
My apartment door is not closed.
It’s open by an inch.
For a moment, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing.
I stop in the hallway and stare at the gap.
The lock is not fully engaged. The door sits slightly ajar, dark inside, silent.
A cold feeling moves through my stomach.
“Misha?” I call quietly.
No answer.
My hand tightens around my purse.
I should turn around. I should call Luka.
I should go back to the elevator, press the button, get downstairs, and tell the night guard to come with me. Every sensible thought lines up at once, clear and obvious.
I push it gently with my fingertips.
The hinges make a small sound.
The apartment is dark.
“Misha?” I call again.
Still nothing.
I step inside and reach for the light switch. The living room floods with light.
My breath stops.
The room has been trashed.
The couch cushions are on the floor. The coffee table is overturned.
Books and papers are scattered everywhere.
One of my lamps lies broken near the wall.
A drawer from the console has been pulled out and dumped.
Misha’s bag is open on the floor, clothes spilling out of it like someone ripped through everything in a hurry.
For a second, I can’t move.
My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s hitting my ribs from the inside.
Then I hear something behind me. A soft shift of movement.
I start to turn.
Something hard strikes the back of my head.
Pain flashes white.
My knees give out before I can scream.
The last thing I see is the broken lamp on the floor and my phone slipping from my hand.
Then everything goes black.