He stops, and his eyes flash. Huffing out a breath, he glares at the floor before returning his focus to me. “Can I come in?” His voice has the texture of gravel, like the words hurt his mouth.
Huh. That’s different.
He didn’t ask last time. He didn’t bother with permission or even the idea of courtesy, just shoved his way in and detonated my world.
The man facing me now isn’t the same as the one who abducted me and rewrote my reality. The intensity still lives, the danger, but the atmosphere feels…different. Changed. I don’t understand how yet.
I fold my arms. “I haven’t decided. Why are you here?”
His eyes meet mine. And for the first time, I see him falter. He doesn’t know his next move, and he knows I know that. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then speaks.
“I can get you a better place. Upper East Side. Doorman. Views. Or anywhere you want. A car. Whatever you need.” The words have a recited quality, as if he’s pushing them outon cue. “Bank account. Enough money that you never have to worry. Vacations. Nice things. You could see that friend of yours whenever you wanted?—”
I raise my hand to cut him off.
The mention of Ashley only sharpens the sting. He’s mapped every bit of my life and thinks he can buy his way back in.
“Those aren’t even sentences, let alone answers. Just a list of things you can purchase. Are you here to buy me things, Kirill? Or are you here for me?”
Kirill stares, flat and unblinking, shark-like. But then…he softens. In a slow collapse, the tension drains from his face and the rigid set of his muscles loosens all at once. For a beat, his eyes close. When they reopen, they’re sharp and clear.
“I’m here for you.”
My heart skids and vaults. I don’t move. I have no idea what to say.
He drags a hand across his mouth.
Is he…nervous?
For him, that one gesture might as well be writing in the clouds.
I’ve never seen him nervous. Maybe I should stay silent more often, if this is what it gets me.
He shifts, his eyes darting away. “I was wrong.”
Holy shit, that was fast.
So much depth lies buried in those words. A dense knot of truth, impossible to unravel.
But Kirill, who has never known what to say, who fights with actions and silence, still said them and managed to imbue them with so many meanings. Impressive for such a stoic.
A spark—half defiance and half survival instinct—rises in me. “What does that mean?”
He slouches, pressing his shoulder to the doorframe, like a heavy weight just landed on him. “I fucked up. We’re…” He stalls, searching, “…a team. You’re…”
I brace myself, expecting easy lines like, “Mine.” “Beautiful.” The things men say when they want to own you.
Inhaling a deep breath, he straightens and stares directly at me. “…my partner.”
All the fight rushes out of me. For a split second, I can’t speak or breathe. Every clever line I’d rehearsed to hurt him evaporates.
I move over and gesture him inside.
Those were really good words. Damn him.
If he ever tried to say more, he’d probably choke.
But what are words, really?
