His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re not as heartless as you pretend to be.”
For a second, his eyes flash, something raw and unguarded. Then it’s gone, smothered under that granite mask he wears so damn well.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re right. I don’t. Because you don’t let anyone in. You just… push and pull and disappear and come back like nothing happened. Like we’re all just supposed to keep orbiting around you.”
“Careful,” he says, voice a low, lethal drawl. “You’re treading dangerous ground.”
“Good. Maybe I’ll fall off the edge,” I snap. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? One less problem to deal with.”
“You’re not a problem,” he grits out, his grip tightening just a fraction. “You’re…”
“What?” I demand, eyes burning as I look up at him. “I’m what, Konstantin?”
His lips part, but no words come out. Just the sound of his breathing, harsh and ragged, like he’s choking on something he can’t say.
Before I can register what’s happening, his arm hooks under my knees, the other slipping behind my back. My world tilts again, and suddenly, I’m airborne, pressed against his chest, his heartbeat hammering through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“Put me down,” I snap, squirming against him, but his grip tightens, his jaw flexing with barely restrained frustration.
“Keep moving, and you’re going to find out exactly how little patience I have left tonight.”
His gaze drops to mine, eyes dark and burning. I’ve seen that look before—the one that promises more than words ever could.
“Like you’d dare.”
“Keep testing me and find out.”
The air between us crackles, heavy with everything unsaid. His jaw is a tense, unforgiving line, eyes locked forward as he carries me down the hall. I’m so close to him I can smell the faint scent of smoke and cedar, feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hiss, hands braced against his chest, trying not to feel how solid, how warm, how infuriatingly safe he feels beneath my palms.
“Keeping you from falling again.”
“I wasn’t going to fall.”
“You were shaking so hard I thought your legs were about to give out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” he mutters, eyes darkening as they finally drop to mine. “And stubborn. So goddamn stubborn.”
He carries me through the west wing gallery, past oil paintings of stern-faced Belov ancestors who seem to judge me with their painted eyes. Two maids round the corner, arms full of fresh linens. Their eyes widen momentarily before they quickly lower their gazes, offering small nods as they press themselves against the wall to let us pass. Not a flicker of surprise crosses their faces—as if the master of the house carrying his crying wife through the halls is the most normal thing in the world.
“Your staff has impressive poker faces,” I mumble against his chest.
“They’re paid well to see nothing.”
“What about hearing nothing?” I ask, suddenly aware of how close his ear is to my mouth, how my lips almost brush his jaw when I speak.
“That costs extra.”
A surprised laugh escapes me, watery and weak. “Was that… a joke? From Konstantin Belov? Quick, someone check if hell froze over.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “I have my moments.”
