I could go to her.
I don’t.
Because if I do, I’ll end up back inside her. And this time, I won’t stop until she breaks.
Or I do.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, fingers steepled under my chin. The fire casts slow-moving shadows over the walls, long and distorted, like everything in this house.
I reach for the tablet on the end table. One flick and the music kicks in—slow strings, the kind I used to play during negotiations when I needed to sound calm while I gutted someone’s career.
Now, it just makes me think of her. The sounds she made when I had her pinned. How she moaned when I told her not to look away.
I turn the volume down.
There’s half a glass of scotch left from when I was here earlier. I finish it. No pause. No thinking. The burn helps. Not enough. I pour again. Two fingers. Clean.
Security feeds hum on as I examine the tablet. Kitchen—empty. Foyer—clear. Upstairs hall… Light under her door.
She’s still awake.
Of course she is.
I switch the screen off.
Ledger’s already open on my desk. Zoning maps, sales comps, my notes in black ink. Clean lines. Structure. Numbers that always make sense.
Not tonight.
I start the Westmont bid. Land values. Easements. Something about permits. I get as far as a single figure before I cross it out. Doesn’t matter. My head’s not in it.
"Please, Konstantin… don’t stop."
Her voice cuts through everything. Like she’s still here. Still under me.
My jaw tightens. I press harder on the pen. Ink bleeds across the page.
I shut the book.
Pacing helps. Sort of. I move from the fireplace to the liquor tray, then back again. I don’t look at the door. Not once. If I do, I’m going to her room. And that’s not happening.
I flip open the console behind the bookshelf. Steel panel, flush with the wall. I load up a different track. Shostakovich. Something aggressive. Something I thought might drown her out.
It doesn’t.
The clock says 1:03 a.m.
My body’s shot. Every muscle tight from training, from the Cullinan, from fucking her like I forgot who I was.
I should sleep.
I should shut this down, kill the lights, close my eyes, and let the night pass without incident. That’s what control looks like. That’s what it used to look like.
But I’m still awake. Still pacing. Still wired like I just stepped off the battlefield.
The fire’s burning low now—just embers licking at the glass screen. The scotch is gone. The music’s still going, dissonant strings slicing through the air. I don’t hear the notes anymore, just the hum of adrenaline that won’t quit.
I stop moving when I hear it. Three knocks. Not hesitant. Not soft. Measured. Direct.
