The memory hits. His mouth on mine. His hands?—
Stop.
"That was a mistake."
"Was it?" His thumb traces my jaw. Gentle. Which makes it somehow more dangerous than if he'd just grabbed me. "You came apart so prettily, Isabelle. Screamed my name loud enough that the neighbors probably complained. Doesn't seem like a mistake. Seems like inevitability."
My hands are shaking.
He's right. That night was the most honest thing I've felt since Dad died. No performing. No pretending. Just need and grief and his body making me forget everything except how to breathe.
"One bed," I whisper.
"One bed." His mouth curves. Dangerous. Promising. "Don't worry. I'll behave."
The lie is so obvious, we both ignore it.
"Get changed." He steps back. Creates space I don't want. "You can wear my clothes until Marco brings yours tomorrow. Bedroom's upstairs. First door on the right."
He disappears toward the kitchen.
I stand in his living room—our living room now, apparently—dripping on rugs that have definitely seen better days, surrounded by evidence of the life he's built for his daughter.
The life I just crashed into with my inheritance clause and my murder investigation and my complete inability to make a single good decision.
My legs barely make it upstairs.
First door on the right opens to reveal exactly what I should've expected: minimalist, clean, a king bed that dominates thespace. Charcoal sheets. One nightstand with a lamp, his gun, and a photo of Mila.
No decorations. No color. Just function.
The Wolf's den.
And now mine.
I peel off the wet dress. Leave it in a heap. Raid his dresser for a t-shirt—Columbia University, soft from washing, smells like him—and pull it on. Hangs to mid-thigh.
My reflection in the mirror looks like I raided my boyfriend's closet after staying over.
Except Sergei's not my boyfriend.
He's my husband.
Fake husband. Business arrangement. Temporary solution.
Keep telling yourself that, Isabelle.
Downstairs, I find him in the kitchen. He's changed too—dry jeans, black t-shirt—and he's doing something domestic with a kettle that makes my brain short-circuit.
The Wolf makes tea?
"You drink tea?" It comes out more accusing than intended.
"Mila likes chamomile before bed." He pulls down two mugs. Plain white. Nothing fancy. "Helps her sleep. Figured you might need it, too."
The thoughtfulness lands weird. Soft. At odds with the man who just explained murder methodology in the car.
He slides a mug across the counter. Our fingers brush, and I'm suddenly aware I'm standing in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and the underwear I didn't bother taking off, drinking tea The Wolf of Brooklyn makes for his daughter, pretending this is normal.
