I inhale shakily, my grip tightening.
Then he guides my hand further, to his inner thigh, and my entire body reacts.
“Another good spot.”
“G-got it,” I manage.
He runs his teeth slowly along his bottom lip, watching me watch him.
“You can take back the knife now,” I croak, desperate to fill the silence before it swallows us whole.
He shakes his head. “No. This one is yours.”
He turns my hand over and opens my fingers. “Look at the handle.”
My breath stutters.
The handle is painted a deep, rich blue, tiny white sparrows detailed so finely it almost hurts to look at them.
“Lastochka,” I whisper.
My eyes burn as I study it, the craftsmanship stunning.
“Did you have this painted? It’s incredible.”
The birds are delicate, purposeful, and almost as if they’re alive.
He smirks faintly. “Perhaps. It’s another skill of mine.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re a painter?!”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I paint things. I’m no artist.”
I shove his bicep playfully, but it doesn’t move an inch. “Do you have a collection I could see?”
Something flickers across his face. “No. It’s never for anyone else’s eyes than my own.”
I stick out my bottom lip. “Please.”
He closes his eyes like he’s bracing himself.
“Begging sounds beautiful coming from you,” he says quietly.
He steps back, reclaiming space before it destroys us. “Maybe one day I’ll show you them.”
I nod, careful not to push. I can feel how thin the line is between him flirting and him shutting down completely.
“So am I ready for Monaco? I can fight off anyone now?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
He chuckles and rests his hand on my shoulder. “I won’t leave your side.”
I nod, comforted more than I want to admit. “Well, I best go pack if we’re done here?”
He runs a hand over his stubble and sighs.
“Oh, I need to run back home before our flight. I didn’t pack swimwear. Or anything pretty to wear to a party. And I need to stop by the office to collect some things.”
He grumbles under his breath, and it sounds like it was Russian.
