Kirill arrived at six.
I met him in the foyer, grateful for the distraction. The past hour had been an exercise in discipline—coordinating security with Yegor, fielding calls from Gleb in Chicago, doing everything I could to avoid thinking about the woman three rooms away and the way her mouth had felt against mine.
It wasn't working.
"Brother." Kirill embraced me briefly, that stiff tolerance he always showed for physical affection. "You look like hell."
"Thank you. Your support means everything."
"I'm not here to support. I'm here to assess." He stepped back, those pale eyes sweeping the penthouse, cataloging exits and sight lines with the automatic efficiency of a man who never stopped calculating threats. "Where is she?"
"Guest room. I told her to stay there until we had a better handle on the situation."
"And she listened?"
"Surprisingly, yes."
Something flickered in his expression—not quite amusement, but close. "That won't last."
"Probably not."
He moved through the penthouse, asking questions, checking security measures, speaking briefly with Yegor about patrol rotations and surveillance coverage. I watched him work and tried to focus on the tactical details, tried to keep my mind on the threat outside rather than the complication inside.
It still wasn't working.
"You're distracted," Kirill said, appearing at my elbow.
"We're under threat. Of course I'm distracted."
"That's not what I mean." He studied me with that unnerving stillness, the kind that made most people uncomfortable. I'd grown up with it, learned to tolerate it, but it still made me want to look away. "Something happened. Since we spoke this morning."
"Nothing happened."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—"
"Your jaw is tight. Your shoulders are raised. You've checked the hallway toward the guest room four times in the last ten minutes." He tilted his head slightly. "You kissed her."
I stared at him. "How could you possibly—"
"I didn't know. I suspected. Now I know." The ghost of something that might have been satisfaction crossed his face. "You confirmed it."
"That's a dirty trick."
"It's an effective trick. There's a difference."
I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself, with him, with the entire situation. "It was a mistake. It happened in the heat of an argument. It won't happen again."
"Why not?"
"Because we're in the middle of a crisis. Because she was my therapist. Because she's only married to me to avoid being sold to the Petrovics." I shook my head. "Take your pick."
"Those are reasons it's complicated. They're not reasons it won't happen again."
"Kirill—"
"I'm not judging." He held up a hand. "I'm observing. There's a difference."
