I pull a deep breath, and look out into the haze of the city amidst the sound of honking cars and muffled music.
Do I look like I want to jump Slava’s bones every time he enters a room? Is my desire so nakedly transparent that anyone who bothers to look can see it? Nico doesn’t even know me, and somehow he managed to pick up on it.
"You look like you're plotting murder."
My body goes rigid for a fraction of a second—a betrayal I'll punish myself for later—but I manage to stop myself from flinching at the sound of Slava’s voice. "Maybe I am."
"Anyone I know?"
You,I think.You, specifically, constantly, for five years.
"Undecided," I say instead.
Slava moves into my peripheral vision, and I hate that my body can track him without my permission. He's carrying two drinks, one in each hand. He stops beside me, and hands one to me.
I turn, and find his eyes hard with something warm and hot that screams he doesn’t want to be here with me.
A part of me—the part that’s honest and realistic about who and what we are—knows that I don’t have to accept it, that I shouldn’t accept it, and that if I accept it, then I’ll be crossing a line that I can’t ever come back from.
I take the glass, our fingers brush again, and I hate how good his touch burns me.
I take a sip and turn back to the skyline because looking at him is too much.
"What did he say to you?"
"Who?"
"Don't deflect, Bella." His voice is soft, but there's an edge underneath it. He’s angry, I can tell. But the anger isn’t directed at me. It’s directed away from me and he hefts it like a shield. "And tell me what the fuck he said, because clearly it's bothering you."
I blink at the skyline. My fingers tighten on the glass.
He murdered her after he raped her.
Why am I having such a hard time believing that? After all the times that his touch has turned so sinfully inappropriate, am I really so naïve as to believe that he wouldn’t be capable of crossing that final heinous line?
That has to be it, right?
I’ll let him cross line after line, and break boundary after boundary. But until he proves that heisable to do what Nico accuses him of doing, I can’t bring myself to believe that claim.
I stay silent.
"Bella. Look at me."
I don't want to. Looking at him is dangerous. Looking at him makes me stupid and soft. It makes me forget that I'm here to destroy him. And if I forget that, then what is there left?
His fingers touch my chin, and tip my face towards him with a pressure that's firm and commanding, but not violent or cruel.
I comply, hating myself in the process, and look at him.
The sticky evening breeze ruffles his hair, and the evening light gilds the small scar on his chin. His eyes are focused on me with an intensity that steals the breath from my lungs. As the warmth of his touch pours into me, my heartbeat slows until it reaches a steady rhythm.
He's too close. We're too close. When did we get this close?
My eyes drop to his lips.
I can't help it. I've been fighting the impulse all night and I can't help it. His mouth is right there, inches from mine, and I want so badly to know what it might taste like.
His thumb strokes the jut of my chin where Nico gripped me, like he’s trying to erase the evidence of Nico’s touch.
