Chapter 6 #3
"The written word." He reaches out and runs a finger along the keys, the gesture almost reverent.
"Books change lives. Stories save souls.
Every great novel ever written started with fingers on keys like these.
" He pulls his hand back, and the softness disappears, replaced by the familiar mask.
His voice drops a notch when he says, "No one knows about this. Not even my brothers."
Soft light from nearby lamps illuminates his beautiful eyes and reflects in the midnight pools…hurt? It quickly passes but his confession stays with me.
He just gave me a secret. A real one. Not some throwaway fact, but something vulnerable and soft hidden beneath all that muscle and menace.
Why? Why would he tell me this?
"I won't tell anyone, Kon," I hear myself say and I truly mean it. “I know I am here because of my wish. I also know there will be a cost and I’ve already told you what I am willing to pay.” I step up to him, close enough to touch his arm. When skin touches skin there’s a jolt of energy.
Hand to God, I am telling the truth. He feels it at the same time I do.
Our gazes connect and we stand there for a moment unspeaking.
“I mean to say thank you,” I manage.
He pulls back and peers down at me and for a moment, it feels as though our souls connect on some primal level.
And then he breaks the spell with a simple sharp nod of his head. “Follow me.”
We continue the tour.
He stops at a panel on the wall, all sleek black glass and softly blinking lights. "Security system. State of the art."
"Meaning don't try to hack it?"
"Meaning you won't succeed if you do."
Oh? Challenge accepted.
He pushes open the next door to reveal a gym packed with equipment. Free weights line one wall, a punching bag hangs in the corner, and machines I'd need a manual to operate fill the rest of the space. "For my use, but you're welcome to it."
"I'll add it to my list of cage amenities."
His jaw ticks, but he doesn't rise to the bait. "Second bathroom." He gestures to another door. "In case yours isn't sufficient," he counters.
His hooded gaze flicks over my flushed face before settling on my lips, and my breath catches in my throat.
I wonder what his lips would feel like on mine. That full lower lip, the hard line of the upper. Would he kiss the way he speaks, slow and deliberate, every movement weighted with intention? Or would he devour, all hunger and heat and no restraint?
He'd be commanding. That much I know. A man like him doesn't do anything by half measures.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips, a nervous habit I can't control, and his jaw tightens like I've just tested the last thread of his restraint.
"It's more than sufficient. But thanks for the options."
He turns without responding and leads me toward a staircase at the end of the hall.
"The roof," he says. "My private space. You're welcome to it.”
I climb the stairs ahead of him, my curiosity overwhelming my exhaustion. The door at the top is heavy, metal, and it groans when I push it open.
I step out onto the rooftop. The night air wraps around me and I forget I’m a prisoner of my own choosing for a minute.
What should be gravel and vents and industrial ugliness is instead a garden, wild and lush and glowing under strings of soft light. The Chicago skyline spreads out beyond the edges like a postcard, all glittering towers and distant noise, but up here everything is quiet. Peaceful.
Raised beds stretch across the space, thick with vegetables whose leaves have gone silver in the moonlight.
Terracotta pots overflow with herbs, their scents rising on the cold air and tangling together until I can barely separate them.
Rosemary. Basil. Thyme, maybe. And something sweeter underneath, something floral that makes me want to believe in the world again.
But it's the roses that steal my breath.
They climb a wooden trellis near the far wall, winding upward like they're trying to escape, their blooms so deep red they look almost black against the night sky.
There are dozens of them, maybe more. All thriving in the cold air like they've decided the rules of nature don't apply up here.
Beauty. Unexpected, impossible beauty hidden on top of a building that looks like a corpse.
I think of his tattoos. I saw barbed wire wrapped with roses, now that I think about it. Pain and beauty intertwined.
Who the hell is this man?
"You grew all this?" My voice comes out softer than I intend.
"Da." He stands beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth cutting through the autumn chill, the wind catching loose strands of his dark hair and sending them across his jaw. "It helps. To make things grow."
He’s sharing again and for a second my throat tightens. I swallow hard and look away, staring at the roses instead of the man who planted them. “That’s what my writing does for me.”
We stand in silence for a long moment. The city hums below us. The wind carries the scent of herbs and flowers and him.
Then I remember why I'm here. What I am. What he is.
I turn to face him, tilting my chin up to meet those dark eyes. The softness from a moment ago still lingers in the lines of his face, making him look almost human. Almost approachable.
"I want to see Sloane."
The words shatter the moment like a brick through glass.
I watch the softness drain from his expression in real time, his features hardening into granite, a scowl darkening his brow until the beast is back and the man who grows roses has vanished completely.
"Nyet."
"She's my friend." I step toward him, fists clenched at my sides. "She got hurt because of me. I need to know she's okay."
His expression doesn't flicker. Not a single crack in that stone facade. "She's okay." His voice is flat. Final. "My people collected your laptop bag from her at the hospital. She's healing. She'll be fine."
My laptop bag. The words hit me square in the chest and my knees nearly buckle with relief. My research. My files. Everything I have on my uncle.
"Where is it?" I grab his forearm without thinking, fingers digging into muscle that feels like warm steel. "When can I have it?"
He glances down at my hand on his arm, one dark eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly. "It's secure. You'll have it tomorrow."
I release him like he's burned me, heat flooding my cheeks. "And Sloane? When can I see her?"
His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering beneath the skin. "You can't." He crosses his arms over his chest, and the motion makes him look even bigger, more immovable. "She has to stay low. Same as you. No contact until we've dealt with your uncle."
Anger sparks in my chest, hot and bright, burning away the momentary softness. "You can't just lock me away and expect me to—"
"I can. You asked me for my protection, this is what it looks like.
" He turns to face me fully, his massive frame blocking the light from the stairwell, and suddenly I'm very aware of how small I am compared to him.
How easily he could break me if he wanted to.
"Your wish. Your life. My house. My rules. "
"That's not—"
"You want to live?" He takes a step toward me. I force myself not to retreat. "Follow them. You want people to die?" Another step. His body heat washes over me like a wave. "Break them."
I hold my ground, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "I can’t hide forever, Kon. As beautiful as your castle is, I can’t stay here indefinitely."
"I will not let another person harm you.
" His voice drops, low and rough and deadly serious. "Keep that in mind when you try to break out of here. Because you will try. I know you will. You leave all your emotions on your sleeve. You care deeply and live by the passion in your heart. It’s also the fastest way to die.”
His words are fire and brimstone to the warrior screaming inside me. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. I hate that he's right. Hate that he can see through me so easily, like I'm made of glass instead of grit and survival instincts.
“And when you do,” he continues. “You won't just be risking your own life. You'll be risking the lives of everyone who tries to stop you and those you think you are helping."
The words land hard against my heart.
He's right. I know he's right. The truth of it burns in my chest. Miguel is dead because he saw me leave and didn’t stop me. It doesn’t matter that I had no idea he spotted me. And Sloane is in a hospital because I dragged her into my mess.
On the flip side, no one understands why I refuse to sit down, shut up and be a good girl.
I've spent my entire life being controlled, being contained, being told what I can and can't do by men who think they know better.
My father. My uncle. Every editor who rejected my work because Seamus made a phone call.
And I'm so fucking tired of it.
The anger boils over before I can stop it.
I don't think. I just move.
My fist swings toward his face. A proper punch, knuckles aimed at that perfect cheekbone. No girly slap. A real hit, the kind my self-defense instructor taught me to throw when I meant business.
He catches my fist like it's nothing.
His fingers wrap around my knuckles, warm and rough and impossibly strong, stopping my momentum dead. I try to pull back, but he holds me there, my arm extended, my body off-balance, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
"Careful, огонёк." His voice is a rumble that vibrates through my bones and settles somewhere low in my belly. "You might start something you're not ready to finish."
There’s no hiding the sexual undercurrent to his words.
I open my mouth to fire back something sharp, but the words die in my throat because he's moving.
He pulls me toward him by my captured fist, his other hand sliding around the back of my neck, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss hits me like a lightning strike.
There's nothing gentle about it. Nothing tentative. His lips claim mine with a hunger that steals the air from my lungs and the thoughts from my brain. He tastes like vodka and smoke and the promise of ruin, and I'm drowning in it before I can remember why I threw that punch in the first place.
His hand tightens on my neck, tilting my head back, and when he deepens the kiss I feel it cascade through my body like a wave.
My lips go numb and tingling. My throat constricts around a pulse that's beating fast enough to kill me.
My chest aches with the effort of breathing, and lower, heat pools between my thighs, liquid and urgent and impossible to ignore.
A sound tears free from my throat, desperate and needy, caught somewhere between a whimper and a moan.
I should be embarrassed by the noise, by my body's blatant surrender, but my brain checked out the moment his mouth touched mine.
My free hand finds his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt. I don't know if I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer.
He anchors an arm around my waist, pulling me up until my bare feet leave the ground and I'm pressed against him with nothing but silk and cotton between us.
His jacket falls from my shoulders, pooling on the rooftop, forgotten.
The cold air hits my skin but I don't feel it. Can't feel anything except him.
He pulls back, just enough to meet my eyes, and what I see in those black depths makes my chest heave and my knees threaten to buckle.
Hunger. Raw and unfiltered. The beast, fully unleashed.
Then he gently sets me down. Like I'm made of glass instead of fury and confusion.
What the hell just happened?
He bends down and picks up his jacket, draping it over my shoulders with a tenderness that contradicts everything that just happened between us.
Then he steps back. His expression shutters. The beast retreats behind the mask.
"Stay in your cage, little flame."
He turns and walks toward the stairs, leaving me standing alone on the rooftop with the roses and the ghost of his kiss still burning on my lips.
I watch him go.
And I hate myself for the part of me that wants to follow.