I hesitate for half a second before I pound on the door.
TUD. TUD. TUD.
It echoes. Loud. Demanding.
Oh no.
I freeze.
Why did I knock like that? Why didn’t I knock like anormal person? Why didn’t I—?Fuck. I should’ve just turned around, eaten something, cried into my stupid silk dress like a classy little trauma nugget.
Too late.
The door swings open.
And there he is.
Bare-chested. Lounge pants hanging low on his hips. Hair slightly damp like he showered too, which is just fucking rude. There’s a sliver of ink peeking out over his collarbone—black, sharp, curling down his side like it owns him.
His eyes drop to my nightdress. Then lower.
I tell him how I feel, give him a piece of my mind, and don’t pull any punches. Then, I fold my arms across my chest, sudden heat crawling up my skin like I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing. Like I just realized how short this dress is. How thin. I shift myweight, clearing my throat like that’ll do something to balance out the power in the air.
All I remember is walking in here like I had something to prove. Like I was the one in control. Like I knew what I was doing.
This isnotwhat I had in mind.
I came here to fight. To throw words like knives and maybe storm out feeling like I’d won something.
Not…this.
His arms wrap around me, fast and final—one under my knees, one behind my back—and suddenly, I’m airborne.
“What the—? Konstantin!”
My hand shoots up, gripping his shoulder out of instinct, and I catch the heat of him. The tension. The kind that buzzes beneath the skin like a live wire, coiled too tight.
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just carries me through like I’m weightless.
“Konstantin—what the hell—?”
“Quiet.”
One word. Flat. Commanding, and… final.
It shuts my mouth mid-breath. Not because I’m scared. Because Ifeelit. The shift in the air. The way his jaw locks. The restraint in every step he takes like he’s one wrong move from losing control.
My heartbeat’s in my throat now. My dress slips higher up my thighs. His skin brushes mine where his grip tightens. And when I look up—
Yeah.
It’s in his eyes. That storm. Hunger and fury layered beneath the surface, masked by that cold control he wears like armor. But it’s slipping. His breath’s too fast. His gaze too locked on me.
Like he’s daring me to say something else—so he has an excuse.
