Kirill’s hand in my hair tightens just enough to keep me close. The faint scrape of his stubble grazes my cheek, and the taste of him—smoke, heat, something darker—spills through me and leaves my knees weak. I press against him without thinking, matching the hunger with my own, until the world beyond this lake stops existing. He deepens the kiss, slow at first, then greedier, as if testing how far I’ll let him go. My fingers slideinstinctively to the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. His breath mingles with mine, warm and uneven, and the cold night air becomes a distant thing.
Every shift of his mouth sends another jolt through me—want, need, mixed with something I don’t have a name for. He kisses me like he’s learning me, memorizing me, and I hate how easily I fall into the same rhythm, answering him as if my body’s known his for years.
He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s finally gotten a taste of something he’s been denied for too long. And God help me, I kiss him back with the same fervor.
Kirill’s hand slides from my hair to gently wrap around my throat, guiding me closer with a low, rough sound that vibrates against my lips. I feel the tremor in his control, the thin line he’s balancing on, and it pulls a helpless moan before I can stop it. I chase the heat of him without thinking, losing any sense of restraint.
We’re pressed together, breathless, yet it still feels like Kirill’s too far away. His breath stutters when I cling to him harder, and that’s the moment the kiss shifts—no longer measured, no longer careful. His grip tightens, pulling me flush against him, his mouth moving over mine like he can’t get enough, can’t taste me fast enough.
A low, ragged groan escapes him, shredding whatever composure I had left. I answer it without thinking, lips parting as heat floods through me in a way that terrifies and consumes in equal measure.
It’s too much. And not enough.
Instead of answering my open invitation and invading my mouth with his tongue, Kirill tears his lips away from me, breath ripping out of him as if he’d been underwater for too long. His forehead drops to mine, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising and falling in uneven, desperate pulls.
“Stella…” His voice is raw, wrecked, barely holding together.
He doesn’t say anything more, but he doesn’t have to.
If we don’t stop now, neither of us will be able to.
“I… I should probably go home now,” I whisper, my voice shaky and foreign to my own ears.
Kirill’s eyes stay on me, unreadable, but his hands fall away, leaving the ghost of his touch where they’d held me.
“You probably should,” he says quietly.
I nod, though I don’t move right away. My lips still sting from the kiss, and every part of me knows that walking away from this while I still can is the smartest thing I can do. If only my feet would work.
“Come,milaya,” he finally says, sensing my upheaval and sliding his hand into mine. “We’ve broken enough rules for one night. Let’s leave before we’re too tempted to break more.”
As he guides me back to the car in silence, I can’t help but notice how each of his steps feels too careful, too deliberate—like he’s fully aware of how close we came to teetering on the edge, to giving in to this disastrous pull neither of us can seem to escape.
More troubling still are the words we left unsaid, because the real question isn’tifKirill will persuade me to break every rule in the book, it’s only a question ofwhen.
Chapter 7
Stella
Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. I missed family dinner.
I’m so dead, I think to myself as I park in my family’s driveway.
Wait a second… I’m twenty-one years old. A college senior for crying out loud. I should be able to skip a family meal or two if I want to. I mean, Marcello ditches dinner all the time. What’s one miss on my record, right? Fuck it. I’ll come up with an excuse.
Unfortunately for me, the second I slip inside my home through the kitchen door, my big brother is sitting at the table looking like the world’s most disappointed parole officer.
“You’re late,” Marcello says.
“And you’re here.” I snort. “Is that the game we’re playing? Stating the obvious?”
My brother doesn’t even crack a smile, too focused on his mission to interrogate me.
“Where were you?”
“I’m sorry… I already have three fathers. Not exactly in the market for a fourth, thank you very much.” I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair, along with my schoolbag.
“Now I know you were up to no good. Otherwise, you’d have told me why you skipped dinner, no problem. Besides, you know how our father gets about family meals.”
