Her lips part under mine, giving me the opening I need. I slide my tongue into her mouth, stroking along hers. She lets out a soft moan.
The sound shoots straight to my head, breaking through the fog clouding my brain. Reality slams into me like a fist. She’s eighteen. My father’s ward. My stepsister…
This could destroy her.
I tear myself away, breath ragged, scanning the patio. The curtains shift inside, a shadow moves past the window, but no one’s looking.Thank God.
When I glance back, she’s frozen, eyes wide, lips swollen. Then shame floods her expression.
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammers, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean—”
“Anya—”
But she doesn't wait to listen. She swerves on her heels and darts back inside before I can stop her. The door shuts hard behindher, leaving the echo of her voice and the taste of her mouth in the cold night air.
I run a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath. She’s safer being angry at me than being caught in my orbit. I know what Yuri would do if he ever suspected.
So I don’t chase her.
I stand there until the vodka in my glass warms in my hand and I can breathe again. Then I go back inside, pretending nothing’s happened. The party is nowhere near winding down as guests laugh and glasses clink.
But Anya’s nowhere to be found.
I tell myself it’s better this way. I’ll talk to her in the morning and explain why nothing can happen between us. I’ll make her understand.
What I don’t admit, even to myself, is that I already know I’ll never stop thinking about her.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
***
The next morning, I enter the dining room expecting to see her at the long table, but she's nowhere in sight. Morning light cuts through the room like a knife. It’s too bright, too clean for this house. The smell of coffee can’t quite cover the sour edge of last night’s liquor still lingering in the air.
I sit at the long table, half-listening to the chatter of staff as they clear empty bottles and champagne flutes from every corner of the room. My head isn’t pounding—years of control won’t allow that, but there’s a heaviness I can’t shake.
I didn't sleep. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face—flushed, tearful, humiliated. The soft sound she made when I kissed her still echoes in my head. Now, morning has come, and Anya has vanished.
“Where is Anya this morning?” I ask Marina, the housekeeper, when she comes to refill my coffee cup.
“Miss Anya already left this morning,” she says solemnly, as though it’s bad news. “Her sister came to get her. They’re going to California for the summer.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“California?”
“Yes, sir. She said she won’t be back before leaving for school in London. Music program, I think.”
I nod once, not trusting my voice. My fingers tighten around the mug until my knuckles turn white.
So that’s it, then.
Last night…her voice, that kiss, the look in her eyes…might be the last thing I’ll ever have of her.
Part of me feels relief. Relief that she’s gone and safe. I won’t have to see her across this poisoned table pretending she doesn’t make my pulse skip. But underneath that relief, something darker curls tight in my chest. Loss, sharp and unwelcome.
The dining room doors open.
