Kiara （Present）
Kiara
Present
I wake up on the sofa in the main living room, finding myself alone, covered with a blanket. When I look around, a cloudy sky is visible through the glass walls. The strong wind bends the trees, their branches tapping against the glass.
This house is so stunning.
I find Bruce sitting at the table behind the sofa, sipping coffee. There’s a clock on the TV stand—it’s ten a.m., and my chest tightens with something both warm and painful.
They are gone.
Whatever we had yesterday, it had to end. I was waiting for one of them to send me back to my suite, to cut me off, but none of that happened. We stayed together. The corners of my mouth lift unintentionally when I think about everything that happened.
Then I turn back to Bruce.
“Morning, Bruce.” I give him a cocky smile.
He definitely hates me. He just nods and keeps sipping his coffee.
“Where are the guys?” I don’t expect to get a real answer, but at least he can tell me if they’re here at the manor.
“They had to leave early,” he says flatly.
My eyes fall on the coffee table in front of the sofa—glasses, popcorn, a controller and a gaming console scattered there. Then something hits me.
“By the way,” I start, trying to catch his attention. “That curly bastard, what’s his last name?”
Bruce gives me one deeply judgy look.
“Moretti,” he says dryly.
I frown. Moretti?
Of course. That would explain the Italian tattoos. However, I’ve never come across that name during my investigation.
Then Bruce continues, “I was instructed to get you back to your suite, and in two hours you’re expected to be in the gym.”
“What for?” I ask him as I furrow my brows.
“Kasien strongly recommends that you learn the basics of self-defense.”
Oh really? I scoff. That prick thinks I can’t defend myself?
Well. He’s right.
“Theresa will be waiting for you. She’s very good,” he explains.
Oh God, he sent me a tutor? I feel quite embarrassed. But I guess I don’t have a choice.
I get up and head to my suite to take a shower. My body is sore, given what happened yesterday morning, but it feels nice.
I feel nice.
I put on some sportswear, ready for the lesson, but I still have some time left, so I take my diary and stare at the notes I made.
It’s almost weird how obsessed I was with everything around the Vermilion Organization, but now that I look at all that, knowing what nearly all of it means, I don’t care anymore.
They’re just pieces of information, just words. They don’t mean anything to me anymore.
I found him, and that’s all it ever was about.
Not only did I find him, but I am now sure that the Kasien I knew is still there. I know he’s not a bad person, he was just brought into a bad world, and he doesn’t know any better.
The way he was smiling when he made us breakfast. He was even joking around.
He was happy.
We were all happy yesterday.
I’m not stupid, I know what they need to do. I’m supposed to be dead.
I let my head fall into my hands, frustrated. I can’t lose him again. Yet I have no idea how to keep him.
?
Theresa is nice, but brutal. I’m covered in sweat and bruises. I can’t catch my breath as I collapse on the mat, with Theresa standing above me. She looks like she jumped out of The Matrix. She’s kind of scary. Hot, but terrifying.
“I can’t do this anymore. That’s enough,” I whine, my voice struggling because I can’t breathe.
“One more spar, get up,” she says with her Eastern European lilt and gives me her hand to help me get to my feet.
But then I hear the rumbling—two motorbikes coming through the rocky driveway, the sound fading into the underground garage. I catch a new breath and my body fills with relief as I look out the window.
They’re here.
I look back at Theresa—she’s waiting for me to get into position, but I give her a weak, whining look.
“We’ve been practicing for more than six hours!” I glare at her.
“Half of it was only theory and we had breaks, Kiara!” she argues back.
Who the hell is this girl? Give me a break.
Then I hear Kasien’s voice getting closer, then Adrien’s voice, and finally they stand in the hall right in the huge entrance to the gym, looking at us. I must be red like a tomato and there isn’t a dry inch on me.
“I don’t like this girl.” I point at her while shooting them an angry look.
They both laugh to themselves.
“I don’t like her either,” Theresa retorts and takes off her boxing gloves, throwing them on the floor at my feet.
I open my mouth in shock.
Bitch.
The guys are in suits again, but Adrien’s hands are smeared with blood and dirt, the stains marking his white shirt as well. I assume they’re not hurt, they’re laughing at us, so I don’t ask.
Theresa walks straight to Adrien, and they greet each other with a quick, almost distant hug, barely touching. Kasien, however, stays still, his gaze locked on me, unblinking.
At least I’m wearing the sexiest gym set I could find, the top tight enough to push my breasts up, almost spilling over the edge.
His gaze drags down my body, slow and deliberate, before lifting back up and locking on my lips. There’s more than six feet between us, but that doesn’t make his stare any less scorching. I shift my weight, feeling the butterflies explode in my belly.
His gaze flickers to the bench press for a millisecond, then back to me. There’s a sting in my chest when the memory of that night flashes through my mind and I swear there’s a glimpse of a smile on his lips. He closes the distance between us, our eye contact not breaking.
He takes my chin in his hand, studying my face and turning it to both sides. He seems satisfied with it being unharmed.
Then he takes one of my hands and tugs at the dry zipper of my boxing glove, taking it off, same with the other one.
He takes my hands in his, lifting them, also studying them.
He tenderly runs his thumb over the red, ripped knuckles.
Then he leans down to my ear, so close I can smell his perfume on his neck.
“Be in the lobby at ten p.m.,” he says as he straightens, still holding my hands, now looking right into my eyes again. “And don’t wear a dress.”
Shocks run down my body.
“Are you asking me on a date?” I tease, lifting my eyebrows.
But he just scoffs.
“Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s a work trip.”
He winks at me, a smirk playing on his lips. I nod slowly, entirely frozen by his presence. Again.
Then he turns on his heel and leaves. I breathe out, rolling my eyes at myself because—what the fuck.
?
I’m standing in front of my mirror after I spent the last hour panicking.
Don’t wear a dress.
What does that mean? What should I wear?
I changed maybe twenty times before I realized he could probably see me on the cameras jumping through the suite, throwing all the clothes around.
Then I sat on the sofa, drowning in my own embarrassment and recollecting how many times I had a nervous tantrum that could be visible on the cameras.
Oh God. Is he really taking me out?
What else would it be?
I’m finishing my hair, brushing it to perfection and I put on dark red lip gloss. My hands are shaking too much to do eyeliner, so I guess I’m satisfied with quite natural makeup. I’m standing only in a white lingerie set in front of my bathroom mirror.
He always loved white on me. If I want to bring old Kasien back, I need all the weapons I have in my arsenal.
Lingerie it is.
And dress.
Fuck him, I’m wearing a dress. I’m not going on a date in pants.
I pull on black tights, because the September nights are cold already, and slip into a black cocktail dress with my Louboutin’s. A black suit jacket on top, dark and polished, the kind of look that makes people think twice. I love it.
I take a shot of whatever is on my cocktail table to stabilize my nerves and head toward the lobby.
The heels are making brain-scratching sounds on the marble floor.
As soon as I step on the first stair, I see him standing down there in the middle of the lobby, his back to me.
He’s wearing black pants and a black sweatshirt, those devastating scarred hands in his pockets.
He turns around, lifting his gaze up to me, not looking away while I descend the stairs to the lobby. His expression is unreadable as always, eyes black. As soon as I get to the last few stairs he breaks out of his trance and jumps to me, giving me his hand to descend the last couple of stairs.
Devil in disguise himself.
He finally half-smiles, looking at my dress when I give him a bold look.
“This is how I dress for work, like it or not,” I say with audacity.
He takes me in, slow and thorough, a hint of something dark settling in his eyes.
“Of course you do,” he says quietly.
He places his hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the garage. The moment we step inside, he reaches for the keys and heads straight for the motorbike when realization hits me.
That’s why I wasn’t supposed to wear a dress.
A black helmet appears in his hand as he closes the distance between us, settling it over my head, the visor still up. My eyes track every movement, unable to look away.
God, he’s beautiful.
His hair has grown a little too long, dark strands falling into his eyes, softening something in him, making him look younger. Closer to the version of him I remember.
The scars on his hands pull with each precise movement, drawing my attention again and again. They’ve always had that effect on me—enough to make my knees feel unsteady.
His focus shifts beneath my chin, adjusting the helmet, his touch careful, almost absentminded.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Jesus, I shouldn’t have taken the shot. Or the second one.
He stops whatever he’s doing mid-motion and lifts his gaze to me, then smiles and shuts my visor down so quickly I stumble.
Asshole.