I couldn't help myself. The entire night of working beside her, breathing in that intoxicating scent, watching the elegant way she moved through complex code, feeling the electric charge every time we accidentally touched... it was torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture that left me wound tight as a spring.
By the time she went to bed, I was ready to climb out of my own skin with need.
The shower finally stops. I focus intently on my coffee, determined to project casual normalcy when she emerges.
Kira appears ten minutes later, looking like she stepped from the magazine pages despite the early hour. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her makeup subtle but perfect, and she is dressed in tailored black pants and a cream silk blouse.
"Good morning," she says, her voice carefully neutral as she moves toward the kitchen. No lingering eye contact. No acknowledgment of the tension that crackled between us last night.
Professional distance restored.
"Morning," I reply, trying to match her tone. "Sleep well?"
"Fine," she answers curtly, pouring herself coffee with practiced efficiency. "You?"
"Great." The lie slides out smoothly. "Actually, I stayed up a bit longer working on our problem. I have a name."
This gets her attention. She turns toward me, cup halfway to her lips. "And?"
"I have a name."
She sets down her coffee with careful precision. "A name?"
"Yegor Durov. Former Bratva exiled approximately five years ago for financial improprieties." I pull up the file on my phone, sliding it across the island to her. "Ring any bells?"
The color drains from Kira's face as she stares at the screen. Her hands begin to tremble almost imperceptibly—a tell so subtle anyone else would miss it.
But I'm not anyone else. And the fear in her eyes is unmistakable.
"Kira?" I stand, moving around the island toward her. "What is it?"
"He's supposed to be dead," she whispers, her voice hollow. "I thought... we all thought..."
Her breathing is becoming shallow, rapid—the beginning of a panic attack.
"Hey." I reach for her, my hands settling gently on her shoulders. "Look at me."
She does, those gray eyes wide with something approaching terror.
"Breathe," I instruct, my voice deliberately calm. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Count with me. One..."
"I can't?—"
"Yes, you can." My thumbs stroke small circles on her shoulders, trying to ground her. "Two..."
She follows my lead, her breathing gradually slowing as we count together. The trembling in her hands subsides, and color returns to her cheeks, but the fear remains.
"Better?" I ask, not stepping away. The contact feels necessary for her comfort and my own.
She nods, though she doesn't pull away from my touch.
"I'm sorry. I don't usually..."
"Don't apologize." My hands slide down to her arms, maintaining the connection. "Tell me about Yegor."
"He was..." She takes another steadying breath. "He worked for my father when I was twenty-two. A tech specialist, like you said. But there was something wrong with him. Something broken."
"How so?"
