***
In rare moments, cracks appear in his armor.
It happens once when I ask about his family. We’re in the living room, the TV murmuring unused in the background. He’s sitting angled toward me, one ankle resting on his knee, looking dangerously comfortable.
“How long have you and Lukyan been doing this?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts to the window, eyes unfocusing for half a second. “Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
“Were you always like this?” I push. “Strategic. Controlled. Willing to do… whatever it takes?”
His jaw tightens. “No one starts like this.”
The flicker is quick: pain, memory, something raw flashing behind his eyes before he shutters it. If I blinked, I’d miss it. I don’t blink.
“What changed?” I ask.
His eyes snap back to mine. For a second, I think he’ll shut down, go cold, remind me exactly who he is. Instead, he looks at me like he’s weighing something invisible.
“Life,” he says finally.
“That’s vague,” I say softly.
He huffs out a humorless breath. “So is the question.”
Another time, I call him out on his methods.
“You’re not God,” I say, standing in the hallway as he goes over something with one of his men. “You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies just because it keeps your numbers balanced.”
He dismisses the man with a quick gesture, then turns to me. His eyes are flat, voice cool. “If I don’t decide, someone else will. Someone worse.”
“Maybe the idea of ‘worse’ is a little flexible.”
A shadow crosses his face. “You think I don’t know what I am?”
“I think you’re very good at justifying it,” I shoot back.
For once, he doesn’t respond right away. His fingers flex at his sides. His gaze slips—only slightly, only for a heartbeat—but it’s enough to hint at something underneath the control. Doubt. Regret. Exhaustion.
Then it’s gone.
“Go sit down,” he says finally. “We’re not having this argument in a hallway.”
My pulse quickens whenever he’s near, no matter how much I fight it.
When we squeeze past each other in the kitchen, his hand brushes my hip, light but possessive. The contact lasts less than a second, but my entire body goes hot and tight, traitorous and utterly beyond my control.
When he stands behind me to look at something on my laptop, his chest hovers near my back, heat radiating through my shirt. I smell his cologne, the faint trace of smoke on his skin, and my lungs forget how to function.
When I walk down the corridor and he’s already in it, I have to pass within inches of him. His shoulder grazes mine, his eyes flick down my body once, and my stomach flips like I’m falling.
I hate it.
I hate that my skin prickles when he says my name in that low voice. I hate that my pulse jumps when he steps into my space. I hate that my body—my stupid, disloyal body—responds to him like he’s some kind of gravitational force I can’t escape.
