The promise in those words followed me through the afternoon, making concentration impossible. Every time I tried to focus on the files, my mind drifted to tomorrow. To what "being good" would earn me. To the kiss he'd promised and whatever came after.
By dinner on day two, I was vibrating with anticipation. He noticed that too—the way my hands shook slightly when I reached for my water glass, the way I kept pressing my thighs together, the way I couldn't quite meet his eyes.
"Patience," he murmured, and the word felt like a command. And like his other commands, I wanted to obey.
"Hey,” he said, voice full of charm, “do you want to head to my room? To check in with the kittens?" My whole body went tight with memory.
His room. Where we'd kissed. Where I'd slept in his arms. Where everything had changed and I'd been trying to pretend it hadn't for two days of careful structure and measured distances.
"Okay," I managed, my voice only slightly strangled.
He led the way, and I followed on legs that felt disconnected from my body. The hallway stretched endless and too short at the same time. When he opened his door and gestured me inside, I had to force myself to cross the threshold.
The room smelled like him—gun oil and soap and something masculine that made my stomach clench. The bed was perfectly made, military corners, and I tried not to look at it. Tried not toremember how it had felt to wake up there, surrounded by his warmth.
"They're bigger," he said, moving toward the utility closet, and I realized I'd been standing frozen just inside the door.
I made myself move, follow him to the small room where the kittens lived. The moment I saw them, something in my chest loosened. Zmeya was attacking a toy mouse with murderous intent, his orange fur standing on end as he "killed" it over and over. Malysh was watching from his corner, gray tail twitching with interest but too lazy to join the hunt.
Then Zmeya noticed my shoelaces.
The attack was immediate and vicious. Tiny claws latched onto the lace, needle teeth following, his whole body committed to destroying this string that had dared exist in his presence. A sound escaped me—not quite a laugh, but close.
"Fierce little thing," I said, kneeling to unhook him. He immediately attached himself to my finger instead, gnawing with milk teeth that couldn't really hurt.
"He's gotten angrier," Kostya said, lowering himself to sit on the floor beside me. "I think he's offended by the concept of things existing without his permission."
This time the laugh was real, surprising us both. The sound felt foreign in my throat, rusty from disuse, but genuine. Zmeya released my finger to attack my sleeve instead, and I was laughing harder, the absurdity of this tiny predator taking himself so seriously breaking through walls I hadn't realized I'd built.
Malysh chose that moment to investigate, padding over on uncertain legs. He sniffed my knee, seemed to approve, and started the arduous process of climbing into my lap. Every movement was calculated, careful, like he wasn't quite sure his body would cooperate. When he finally made it, he collapsed in a heap and started purring so loud it sounded broken.
"Oh," I breathed, my hand automatically going to stroke his soft fur.
Kostya shifted beside me, and suddenly I was hyperaware of his proximity. Our shoulders brushed when he reached over to scratch behind Malysh's ears. His thigh pressed against mine as he adjusted his position. The heat of his body radiated through the inches between us, making my skin prickle with awareness.
I stroked Malysh, pretending to focus on kitten purrs instead of the heat pooling low in my stomach. It was impossible not to notice how easy it would be for Kostya to pin me right here, right now—and how badly I wanted him to do exactly that. For three days, the contract had said “wait,” so I’d waited. The anticipation was gnawing at me with tiny, insistent bites, no less relentless than Zmeya’s attack on my sleeve.
I bent to nuzzle Malysh, mostly as an excuse to hide my face.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not excited,” Kostya murmured. His voice was right against my ear. It was either a trick of acoustics or he’d moved even closer without me noticing. “Or nervous.”
I risked a sideways glance. I caught his eyes, storm-gray and hungry, and the look made something essential in me clench.
"You're allowed to feel things," he said quietly.
"I feel too much," I admitted. "That's the problem."
"No." His hand covered mine where it rested on Malysh's fur, and the touch sent electricity through every nerve. "The problem is you've been feeling them alone."
I turned to look at him and found his face closer than expected. Close enough to see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes. Close enough to count the scars on his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath on my skin.
"You're not what I expected," I whispered.
His thumb moved across my knuckles, slow and deliberate. "What did you expect?"
"A monster."
"I am a monster," he said simply. "But I also know how to be gentle with things that matter."
