15. Kate
Kate
By the time the helicopter lifts off the yacht, the Atlantic wind is already whipping through my hair and the yacht lights are nothing but a distant glitter behind us.
I sit across from him, legs crossed tightly, hands clasped in my lap like I’m not trying to ground myself against the whirlwind that’s become my life.
Michael looks utterly unfazed. A man who rules chaos. One hand wrapped around a tumbler of scotch, the other braced on the armrest like he’s riding in a limousine and not being flown out of international waters after kicking a made man off his yacht.
Me? I’m just trying to remember how to breathe.
“Was that normal?” I finally ask, loud enough to be heard over the rotor blades. “What just happened back there?”
He grins like I made a joke. “That?” he says. “That was mild.”
I groan, pressing my hands to my face. “I need to go home. I need a night without bodyguards or Russian oligarchs or—whatever the hell tonight was.”
Michael’s grin fades, but not the heat in his eyes. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, that predatory calm settling over him again. “You think you get to retreat now?”
“I think I need a minute,” I say, my voice quieter. “Just a second to breathe.”
His gaze sharpens, but not in anger. Something else. Hunger, maybe. Possession.
“My penthouse is under renovation,” he says. “The lake house is too far. That leaves one option.”
My heart stutters. “Michael?—”
“We’re going back to your place.”
He says it like it’s already done. Like there was never any other choice.
And maybe there wasn’t.
We don’t speak the rest of the ride. I stare out the window at the city lights crawling back into view, while he stares at me like he’s already in my head. Like he knows what I’m thinking before I do.
By the time the helicopter touches down, my heels click against the asphalt as I follow him to the waiting car. He opens the door for me, waits until I’m inside, then slides in after me.
There’s no small talk. Just the quiet hum of the streets as we head back to my tucked-away condo.
Back to the place I never thought I’d let him see again.
Back to the place I’m not sure I can hide from him anymore.
The hum of the helicopter still echoes in my ears when we step into my condo, the silence swallowing us whole like the thick velvet drapes of a theater after the curtain falls.
Michael’s presence fills the space instantly. He doesn’t belong here — not in this tucked-away slice of minimalism I carved out for myself — but somehow, he fits. Like a storm cloud drifting through still air.
I toe off my heels at the door, heat crawling up my neck as he steps inside behind me, tall and silent, his eyes sweeping the space like he’s casing it. Not for security threats. For me.
The clean lines of the open-concept living room greet him first — white walls, pale ash floors, cream leather sectional, marble coffee table. Modern. Curated.
But I watch his gaze pause, slow, linger.
It catches the small things I always hoped no one would notice:
The antique hobnail milk glass lamp on the entryway table, stacked atop old hardcovers of Faulkner and Fitzgerald, a cluster of sun-bleached seashells arranged like sculpture beside them.
The soft-worn brass reading lamp beside my velvet reading chair. It once sat in my grandfather’s den.
A woven quilt folded neatly at the foot of the chaise, its colors faded but still proud. Hand-stitched by my grandmother.
Art on the walls that didn’t come from a gallery — watercolors from a small town in Maine, a black-and-white photograph of a carousel, taken on real film.
The Cello resting by the fire place… beloved, old, untouched since the music died in me.
My roots are here. Pieces of my childhood. Echoes of a simpler life before Michael’s world — before guns and games and men like Romanov looked at me like I was meat with a diamond price tag.
Michael’s quiet as he strolls further in, pausing at the window that overlooks the water. The harbor lights blink below, soft and hazy through the fog rolling in.
“Your home is beautiful.” His hand is fisted in a pocket, he almost looks sad, wistful as he says this.
“I never imagined you here.”
“Why, not? Scared, Kate?”
“Can you blame me?” I lift my chin. “You walk through people like they’re stepping stones. You own rooms. Demand submission. And I’m the one who has to keep my life from getting swallowed whole just because I kissed you once at a dock party and couldn’t forget the taste.”
His jaw flexes. “We both know it was more than a kiss.”
He’s close now, his body radiating heat, tension, hunger. I want to push him away and pull him in at the same time.
“You want to run,” he says low. “But you brought me here. You chose this.”
I look up at him—this man who makes war feel like worship—and for one second, I think maybe I did.
Maybe I wanted him to see this side of me. Maybe I wanted to be reminded I still have one.
The silence hums. Outside, a foghorn sounds across the bay. Amber barks softly from her bed down the hall.
“I need a shower,” I murmur, suddenly feeling the weight of salt air and secrets clinging to my skin.
“Take one,” Michael says, not moving. “But leave the door unlocked.”
He walks toward the window again, glass of scotch already in hand, his back a fortress of muscles wrapped in silk and control.
I hesitate, then walk down the hall, pulse racing.
Because I know what leaving that door unlocked really means.
And tonight, I don’t think I’ll stop him.