Damian Ignatov stands with his gloved hands casually at his sides, dressed in a charcoal suit as dark as his shadow. Even from a distance he looks… dangerous.
Too composed and still, like the air rearranges itself to make room for him.
I haven’t seen him since the last night of the war, not since the moment he walked past me silently, not a single glance thrown my way. Not a flicker of acknowledgment that only hours earlier he’d told me to stay safe, to stay close, to trust him with things I shouldn’t have trusted anyone with.
That version of us died on a battlefield made of code and betrayal.
But now… now he stands there with those dark emerald eyes of his, his lean build wrapped in one of those classic suits of his with a stupid brown tie—always a fucking tie that he pairs with those stupid suits of his.
Stupid.
I’m the stupid one, really, when I think of how easily he left me in the ruins of everything we almost were.
My pulse kicks, sharp and traitorous.
His gaze lifts, catches mine, holds, and my world tunnels around him.
Those dark green eyes soften for a nanosecond before he smooths it away behind that velvet mask he wears so well. His frame towers, standing at his height of six feet.
“Harper,” he says, his voice low enough to heat the frost around us. “I didn’t realize Sera had company today.”
A lie.
Damian Ignatov doesn’t “not realize” things. It’s not in his nature.
“Damian,” I answer, keeping my tone polite, distant. The kind of voice people use with beautiful strangers on elevators. “Didn’t realize you were in Moscow.”
His smile deepens, subtle, devastatingly confident.
“I arrived this morning.”
The cold air suddenly feels intrusive, pressing against my back. He steps closer, and the temperature drops even more. Damian radiates heat in the way fire does—quiet, controlled, capable of burning a city down if someone forgets to contain it.
“Let me give you a ride,” he says smoothly, gesturing to the car.
Just like that.
As if we’re acquaintances. As if nothing happened between us.
As if he didn’t once kiss me like—
I inhale slowly. My armor slides into place.
“Not necessary.”
His head tilts like a hunter noticing movement.
“It’s below freezing.”
“I’m aware.”
“And dangerous to walk alone.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious.”
His eyes narrow, considering, calculating. Damian doesn’t push, but his gaze does the work for him.
“I insist,” he murmurs.
