“Was that a game to you?” His back is to me as he tests the window latch. “In there. On the stage. Were you trying to piss me off?”
The nerve.
“Piss you off? Pissyouoff?” I spin away before I say something I’ll regret.Bad energy out. Good energy in.“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
We both know it’s a bald lie. Of course I knew he would take my presentation badly.
I used this black dress—the one he picked specifically to mark me as his—and transformed it into my advantage.
The dress became my argument, my rebellion. A prop in my talk about trauma. His chain, mixed with my words, morphed into a key.
And that felt right. More than right. For the first time since he spawned into my life, I could breathe.
I sense movement and pivot to find him studying me, his face carved in ice, the anger disciplined yet feral. He closes the gap between us in three strides, forcing me to meet his burning-cold gaze.
“I never should have let you come.”
The implication—that my actions are his to permit or deny, that my presence is a gift or a mistake he could retract—strips a fresh layer off my self-control.
I refuse to shrink, to give him that satisfaction. “Then I would have run away again to get here.”
His brow furrows, confusion darkening his expression. “Straight into danger?”
I glare, crossing my arms over my chest. “If I had to.”
“Why?” His genuine bafflement only sharpens the edge of my fury.
He can’t see, can’t fathom, can’t widen his vision to include my promises, my motivations, or my life outside the tight circle of his mission. Everything else is static.
“Because I’m honest, and I made a promise. Something you would never understand since you’re broken inside.” I punctuate the accusation with a shove to his chest. The act isfutile against his stone wall of a torso, but the sharp admonition lands.
His face blanks out as the rage drains, leaving nothing.
You’re broken inside.
Well, shit.
I shouldn’t have said that. Not so bluntly. I already want to eat my words.
No matter what, I know better than to call someone out like that. Karma always comes back threefold.
But taking it back would be a surrender, a loss. And I’m not giving in just yet.
The thick silence spirals.
He just gazes at me, searching, the space between us raw and unguarded.
His hand twitches, the suggestion of motion electric with anticipation and dread. For a moment, I think he’ll touch me.
And I hope he does.
A knock stops us both.
Three raps, heavy and measured, vibrate the door and break the spell, snapping us back to the real world.
Kirill transforms in an instant. Cold focus replaces his tentative vulnerability, his shoulders squared and his eyes devoid of heat. The monster. The professional. The killer. Every trace of softness has disappeared.
The change terrifies me, but I don’t want to look away.
