Afterward, I lie sprawled and gasping, every nerve crackling.
My vision swims, muddled by tears. Kirill towers over me, the ceiling light a halo around his head. An aura. A vision. My path forward.
And through the haze, a new, horrifying truth crystallizes.
If he decided to take me all the way—if he claimed every last part of me—I’d hand him everything.
Every secret, every answer, every hidden memory. I’d spill my life at his feet.
No one has ever undone me the way Kirill just did, and I’ve never been left with a hollow ache in my chest after the fact.
I want more.
And that’s what frightens me most.
Not his violence, not his ruthless control, not even the lethal intent beneath his touch. But the way he destroys each wall I’ve built.
Chapter 16
Kirill
The lobby stinks of patchouli and hope ground to dust. That sour, clinging undertone of too many cheap oils and sweat, burnt coffee, and the ash of sage smoked to the filter.
I would never choose to stay in this hotel.
The space is nice enough, sure. Three stars, maybe three-and-a-half. Beige marble flooring, hanging plants, tasteful though peeling wallpaper, and a faux-crystal chandelier above the check-in desk. But it’s in the dead center of the city. Too open, too exposed, and too easy to find.
Give me a hole-in-the-wall motel any day.
I scan for exits, for threat vectors, for anything that might matter.
Nothing.
Just men with beards that never fill in and tunics that billow off pale arms. Women with too-bright smiles layered up in tie-dye and gauzy scarves.
The attendees wade through booths of merchandise that include aura snapshots, crystals that promise a different self, and vibrational healing for ailments no one can name.
I am a shark caged in a plankton tank. Teeth are wasted here.
There’s nothing worth eating.
Except Jordan.
The black dress I ordered, along with the matching shoes, fit her like a blade’s sheath. But the change in her is more than external.
Her shoulders rise and straighten as her lungs fill. Her eyes close, and her chin lifts. With a tiny shake of the head, her hair shifts, lying in shimmering waves down her back. I witness the transformation as she grounds herself in this environment.
With each stride, her steps become fluid and powerful.
More solid. More definite. The black dress is a shadow slicing through the sea of earth tones and floaty beige, setting her apart and out of place. Yet she’s also rooted by muscle memory. Even though the dress marks her as an outsider, she glides toward the conference registration desk with confidence.
I follow three paces behind, a satellite to her sun. Ready to move if necessary, though distant enough to be unseen.
The woman at the counter wears a large steel ring through her nose and a smile trained to smooth every surface. Her gaze bounces from Jordan to me. She twitches just slightly.
Jordan peers over her shoulder at me. “I think she knows you’re not signed in yet.”
I don’t answer, unamused by Jordan’s joke and the way the receptionist looks at me. As if my scars are stranger than her own hardware.
