I ought to step back. Break the moment. But I’m trapped in the strange intimacy of her touch, her fingers soft and warm against skin hammered thick and hard by years of loyalty to the Kozlov Bratva.
“And you have that.” She nods to the coffee table, where my gun lies in pieces beside her scant belongings. Her eyes lift to meet mine. “You have nothing else, Kirill.”
My name from her lips sets off a stick of dynamite in my chest.
Deep beneath the surface, old fault lines give way. Hoarfrost shatters under uneven pressure.
Jordan sees through me, peeling back armor I never admitted I wore. She names the emptiness I won’t let myself acknowledge, the void I’ve carried since those men left me to freeze. Since I learned survival means chopping off every soft part of yourself.
The parts that humanize you.
I close my hand around hers, swallowing her smaller fingers in my grasp. Not enough to hurt, but enough that she can’t pull away. I loom over her, letting my height work for me. A threat made flesh.
She tilts her head back to keep my gaze, refusing to glance away or yield.
I can respect that.
Almost admire her.
Her body brushes mine, and I catch the heat rolling off her skin. Ice rips apart the soil but gives easily under any kind of warmth, even muted sunlight.
I tug her closer, curious how she’ll react to me upping the ante. The pulse in her throat quickens, becoming frantic. Her eyes widen. A flash of fear, yes, but also…rebellion?
Maybe even a challenge.
I like those.
I flex my fingers over hers. “I have you.” My declaration crackles in the charged space between us.
She shivers, her tongue flicking out over her lips. “And…what are you going to do with me?”
Her question lingers.
WhatamI going to do?
So many ideas rush through my head.
I should focus on the job. The mission. The key. The leverage she possesses. Information that could save my life.
But right now, I can only focus on the heat of her in my hand, the hitch in her breath, and the restless, searching look in her eyes. She sees me, all of me, and I can’t decide if I want to break her or?—
I want to break her. Make her talk. And I want to?—
I scour for weakness in her eyes. A tell or an opening.
Instead, I find a hunger that swallows me whole.
I’m unmoored, lost in those depths the same way I was lost in the winter-dark and blood-streaked snow. That familiar sharp and endless loneliness rushes in.
I should be immune by now. For decades, I’ve ignored the sensation, rejected the possibility, even warned others not to be stupid.
But instinct is older than memory.
My face dips, my mouth only a hair from hers. “Whatever I want.”
The air between us vanishes.
I mean for the kiss to be a warning. A demonstration. A harsh reminder about who holds the power here.
