His voice is raw, devastated, dangerous.
I open them. He's looking down at me with an expression I've never seen. Grief and hunger twisted together into something that makes my breath catch. His white shirt is disheveled, a spot of blood on his knuckles. From whatever he broke in the study.
"I read the diary."
I don't reply, I can't.
"You loved him." Not a question.
"Yes," I admit.
"He loved you."
"Yes."
His hand moves toward my face, stops inches away, trembling. I can feel the heat radiating from his palm, so close but not touching. The space between us crackles with everything we can't say.
"What am I supposed to do with you now?"
The question hangs between us like a blade, and I don't know if he's asking me or himself. His hand hovers there, shaking slightly, caught between reaching for me and pulling away.
"I don't know," I whisper.
"You said 'I promise.' Over and over while you were… whatever that was. What did you promise him, Sofia?"
"I don't know. I can't…" Tears slip down my temples into my hair, cold against my scalp. "I can't remember. Something about a warning. He was going to warn me about something."
Silence stretches between us. He looks down at the diary, then back at me, still watching from above me.
"My brother wrote about you for months. Called you the best thing that ever happened to him." His jaw works like he's fighting words. "And then he died. And you just… forgot?"
The accusation cuts deep because it's true. Whatever we were, whatever we meant to each other, I lost it all that night.
"I didn't choose to forget. And I don't know if I kept the promise I made. I don't know if I…" The words stick in my throat like broken glass. Betrayed him. Failed him. Got him killed.
His eyes are wet, glittering in the low light. "Only family called him Misha. And you."
The weight of it settles between us. I wasn't just some girl who got his brother killed. I was someone Mikhail loved. Someone who loved him back. Someone who mattered.
His fingers finally make contact. Just the tips, tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. The same place he touched last night, before everything changed. My body arches slightly toward his touch before I can stop it, and his breath hitches.
"You respond to me." His thumb brushes across my bottom lip. "Even knowing you loved him. Even now."
"I can't help it." The admission tears from me. "I try not to, but…"
"Don't." His hand cups my face fully now, thumb still on my lip. "Don't try. It's the only thing that makes sense anymore."
The weight of his palm against my cheek, the way his thumb presses slightly into my mouth. It shouldn't make me wet, not after what we've just discovered. But my body doesn't care about shoulds. It only knows his touch, his scent surrounding me, the dangerous heat in his eyes.
"Mikhail is dead," he says, voice rough. "But you're here. In my bed. Wearing my shirt. Responding to my touch."
His thumb pushes deeper, and I part my lips involuntarily, letting him in. The gesture is intimate, possessive, wrong in every way. His pupils dilate as my tongue brushes against his skin.
"What would he think?" His voice drops to a whisper. "His lover and his brother…"
He pulls his hand away abruptly, stepping back from the bed. The loss of contact makes me whimper before I can stop myself.
"What am I supposed to do with you now?" he repeats, like it's the only thought that matters.
