I slip into the hall, my bare feet silent on the threadbare carpet. The silk of the dress skims my skin and whispers when I move, simultaneously loud and soft. I follow the faint puddle of light that draws me deeper into the house.
Inside my chest, my heart hammers. Fear, yes, but more than that. Curiosity?
Curiosity. Sure. That’s what this is.
I’m not brave enough to name the impulse that drives me out of my privacy while donning the red silk dress.
And I’m not strong enough to resist.
At the end of the hall, the living room waits. Everything in this house is pared down to necessity. The couch, chair, and coffee table are all hard lines, black and gray, steel and leather. A room meant for use, not pleasure.
An unmoving Kirill sits on the low couch.
He doesn’t look up, but he knows I’m here. That knowledge lives in his shoulders and the hold of his breath. His focus stays on the gun spread out on the round, wooden coffee table before him, each metal piece neatly arranged on a square of white cloth.
He works with his hands—methodical, precise—as he silently oils and wipes and fits the parts together.
The ritualistic way he cleans his gun steals the air from my lungs, as does his absolute attention on every step.
His hands are big and rough, yet they move with this strange, gentle accuracy as they slot tiny, lethal pieces into a deadly puzzle.
It’s so completely him. The carefulness. The certainty. The threat simmering beneath his control.
Those same hands murdered men today. And touched me two days ago. Drove me mad, pushed me over the edge…
“Come here.” Though not a suggestion—Kirill never suggests—his voice is soft, almost tender.
My body obeys before my mind can catch up, my feet carrying me across the room to the edge of the sofa. We’re close enough that I feel his heat, but I don’t touch. Not yet.
He doesn’t look at me. Just fits the oiled metal home with a faint, final click that lingers in the stillness. “The dress fits.”
Not praise. Not even a question. A fact, data logged and acknowledged. Somehow, he knows the dress is my size without looking up at me. Though, considering his acute attention to detail, I’m not surprised. A little irritated at the presumptuous bastard? Sure.
But even so, his words slide under my skin and heat blooms along my neck and cheeks.
“It’s so…intense.” What I don’t say sits heavy beneath the surface.Like you.The dress is an extension of him. His severe and dangerous mark on me.
He finally glances away from the gun. His winter-cold, pale blue eyes track me from the floor to my face. Taking his sweet time, he regards my bare feet, his stare skating all the way up my body. When he meets my eyes, the stare is physical and possessive, like he’s counting inventory.
A sharp but not unwelcome shiver ripples through me. After all, he won. I’m in his colors, wearing what he picked, and standing where he told me to.
All his.
I pivot and step back, needing to carve out space away from his gunmetal scent, to breathe air that isn’t thick with the force of his focus. My gaze snag on a sculpture in the corner. A jagged knot of metal, all hard gleams and cruel corners, as impersonal as the rest of this place. “That sculpture. It’s…cold.”
Kirill’s hands still. I can feel him recalibrating, the weight of his stare shifting from my body to the art, then back to me. Silence stretches between us, thin and tight as piano wire.
“It’s a block of metal.” A flicker of surprise and an edge of irritation rumble beneath his otherwise flat tone. He didn’t expect this. He thought I’d break first, not steer us from the tension clawing at the air. “And before you ask me about it, I didn’t choose it. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen it before.”
I look at him from over my shoulder, then sweep my eyes across the living room. Secondhand furniture, but not the sort of well-loved used I spy in most thrift stores. The thin couch cushions are utilitarian and stiff. The entertainment center on the far wall sits empty, all rough wood and jagged edges. Paint peels off the walls, and water stains dye the popcorn ceilings.
Not a single picture or painting graces the space. No signs of life. While cold, the last house at least had some semblance of living.
“This isn’t a happy place.” The words slip out before I can choke them back.
The quality of his stillness transforms, electric and alive with vibration like the air before a lightning strike.
He’s drawing himself in, which sparks my nerves with anticipation.
