I moved around the island, closing the distance between us. She didn't back away, but I saw her tense, her hands gripping the edge of the counter behind her.
"Tell me you felt nothing," I said. "Tell me that kiss was just adrenaline and proximity and stress. Tell me that, and I'll drop it. We'll never speak of it again."
She looked up at me, and I saw the conflict in her eyes. The war between what she wanted and what she thought she should want.
"I can't tell you that," she said quietly.
"Then stop pretending this is simple."
"It has to be simple. If it's not simple, I don't know how to handle it."
"Maybe you don't have to handle it alone."
"I've always handled things alone. That's how I survive."
"That's how you've survived. Past tense." I reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. My fingers brushed her jaw, the lightest touch, and I felt her breath catch. "You're not alone anymore. Whether you want to be or not."
"That's what scares me."
"I know."
We stood there, inches apart, the air between us thick with everything we weren't saying. I wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to pull her against me and finish what we'd started, consequences be damned.
But I didn't. Because she wasn't ready. And I wasn't going to push her somewhere she didn't want to go.
"I should go back to my room," she said.
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I should." She stepped away from the counter, away from me, and I felt the distance like a physical loss. "Thank you. For checking on me."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I wanted to." She paused at the doorway, looking back at me. "For what it's worth—I don't regret it. The kiss. I don't understand it, and I don't know what it means, but I don't regret it."
"Neither do I."
She nodded once, then disappeared into the hallway. I listened to her footsteps recede, the soft click of her door closing, and then I was alone with the silence and the city lights and the memory of her face when she'd admitted she'd felt something too.
I stayed in the kitchen for a long time, thinking.
Kirill was right. Uncertainty was a vulnerability. I couldn't afford to be distracted, couldn't afford to let my feelings for Keira—whatever they were—compromise my judgment or cloud my decisions.
But I couldn't pretend they didn't exist either. That kiss had changed something. Shifted the ground beneath us in ways I was only beginning to understand.
She'd said she didn't regret it. That was something. A starting point. A foundation to build on, maybe, if we lived long enough to try.
I rinsed my glass and set it in the sink, my movements automatic while my mind churned. Three weeks ago, I'd walked into her office expecting nothing more than a way to quiet the noise in my head long enough to sleep. I'd found something else entirely. Someone who saw through the performance. Someone who asked questions no one else bothered to ask. Someone who made me want to answer honestly, even when the truth was ugly.
And now she was my wife. Living in my home. Sleeping three rooms away while I stood in my kitchen trying to untangle feelings I'd spent my entire adult life avoiding.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
I walked to the window and looked out at the city. Somewhere out there, the Petrovics were planning their next move. Cormac was nursing his wounded pride. Branko was fantasizing about the woman he thought he owed.
They could plan all they wanted. They weren't getting her.
Not because she was a strategic asset. Not because the marriage protected our interests. Not because walking away would make me look weak.
