She shrugs, folding her arms, jaw tight. “I don’t know. But the way they spoke…it sounded like it was planned. Like the murder was supposed to distract everyone from something else.”
I feel a cold certainty slide into place. “Irina never does anything for only one reason. If she wanted Kirov dead, it’s because his death served her. And if she used the chaos to move against me?—”
“Or against someone else,” Bella adds quietly.
I watch the morning light burn through the haze. “She’s setting the city on fire, and she doesn’t care who burns as long as I feel the heat. But I don’t understand something,” I say slowly, almost to myself. “Kirov was one of hers.”
Bella’s eyebrows knit. “Really? I thought—” She hesitates, searching my eyes.
I shake my head, exhaling. “Kirov worked for my mother for years. He was loyal, at least as far as anyone can be in our world. His death isn’t just another body. It’s a message, and it’s complicated.” I pause, searching for the right words. “Thatflight, the murder, it was meant to start something. Maybe to distract me, maybe to push the other families, maybe both.”
She’s silent for a moment, trying to follow.
I lean against the glass, the city far below us. “In my world, loyalty is currency. Kirov was valuable to her—he was brutal, efficient, and he kept her hands clean. For her to sacrifice him? That means she’s planning something bigger than any of us have seen before.”
Bella takes a step closer, voice softer. “Why are you telling me this?”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a sigh. What the hell am I doing? Letting her see me like this—unguarded, explaining the rot at the core of everything I am. I want to shield her from it, but I want her to understand too. I want her to know who she’s really standing beside.
“I need you to see it, Bella. The world you’re in now. What I’m fighting. What I’ve always been fighting.”
She doesn’t back away. She meets my gaze, brave in ways I didn’t know I needed.
I want to say I’m sorry for dragging her into this. But the truth is, I can’t let her go. Not now. Not ever.
I close the distance between us, unable to help myself. My hand slides to the back of her neck, my thumb tracing her jaw, the city forgotten behind the glass. She hesitates for just a second, eyes searching mine, but I can feel the pull between us—thick, magnetic, impossible to ignore.
I lean in, our lips meeting in a kiss that’s hot and urgent. The moment she melts into me, everything else slips away. My goodarm wraps around her waist, crushing her to me, her body pressing back, need rising between us like wildfire. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. I groan into her mouth, devouring her, tasting the want and the ache and every unsaid word.
I pull back, breathless, my forehead resting against hers. “Lily is mine. Why did you never tell me?” My voice is rough, trembling with old pain. “Why didn’t you try to find me?”
She draws in a shaky breath, her eyes darting away. “Would you have wanted anything to do with us?” she whispers, almost ashamed.
I catch her chin, making her meet my gaze. “What do you think?” I ask, voice low, dangerous with honesty.
She doesn’t answer. She just grabs my shirt and pulls me back in, kissing me harder, desperate, as if she can erase all those lost years with her mouth. I let her. I press her against the window, hands roaming her body, memorizing her all over again.
When I slip her robe off her shoulders, she’s left wearing nothing but her panties. I lower my mouth to her chest, slow and deliberate, like I want her to feel every second of it. My lips close around her nipple and I suck gently at first, then harder, my tongue circling, teasing, learning the way her breath stutters when I do it just right. She arches into me with a soft, broken sound, fingers digging into my shoulders, careful of the bandage but greedy everywhere else.
“God,” she whispers, breathless.
I switch sides, lavishing the same attention on the other nipple, licking, sucking, flicking my tongue until she’s trembling. I love the way her body responds, like it remembers me even when hermind still wants to question everything. Her skin tastes warm and faintly sweet, and I can feel how turned on she is just from the way she moves against me.
I straighten and turn her around slowly, pressing her palms to the glass. The city stretches out in front of her, bright and distant, while I step in close behind. I kiss the back of her neck, open-mouthed and lingering, then trail my lips down her spine, pausing to bite lightly where I know she’s sensitive.
She shivers.
My hardness presses into her ass, unmistakable now, and she lets out a moan she doesn’t even try to hide. Her nipples brush the cold glass, already swollen, already sensitive, and the contrast makes her gasp.
I grip her hips and roll into her just enough to make my point. “You feel that?” I murmur against her neck.
She nods, breath uneven, her head tipping back toward my shoulder as I continue kissing her neck and back, worshiping every inch of exposed skin. I slide my hands around her waist, thumbs brushing under her breasts, making her moan again when I pinch her nipples lightly between my fingers.
The glass is cool, my body hot behind her, and she’s caught between it all, nowhere to go and clearly not wanting to. Her sounds fill the room, soft and needy, and I know with brutal certainty that this pull between us hasn’t weakened with time.
I keep her pressed against the glass, my hand firm on her hip as she shudders beneath my touch. Her breath fogs the window, her nipples tight and pink where they meet the cool surface, body caught between the city and the heat of me.
With my free hand, I slip down the curve of her stomach, sliding beneath the fabric of her panties. I can feel how wet she is already, the soft material clinging to her, and it makes me groan low in my throat. I hook my fingers into the thin band and, with one quick, impatient tug, I rip them away, the sound sharp and obscene in the quiet room.
