He leans closer, close enough that I can feel his breath when he speaks, his voice dropping low. “You’d better learn fast, Kira. People will be watching.”
The way he says my name does something strange to my chest, like a flicker of heat I don’t want to feel. I shove the papers into my bag.
“Fine. I’ll study,” I mutter. “But if anyone asks, I was kidnapped.”
He looks at me for a moment, unreadable. “That’s not far from the truth.”
The words hit harder than they should. I step out of the car and slam the door, breathing in the cold air.
He rolls down the window. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll text you at what time.”
“I have to go to work.”
“I know.”
The car pulls away and he’s gone, disappearing into traffic like it never existed.
I stand there for a long moment, watching the street. My hands are shaking, but not from fear this time. Maybe anger. Maybe something worse.
Inside, I drop the bags on the floor and sink onto the couch, pulling the papers from my bag. His handwriting stares back at me, steady and controlled.
Favorite drink: Vodka.
Favorite color: Gray.
How we met: Mutual friend’s engagement party.
What I first noticed about her: Her lips.
My chest tightens as I stare down at his words, and for a moment I just sit there, feeling the weight of everything that’s happened pressing against my ribs. I close my eyes and let the papers slip from my fingers, the soft rustle of them hitting the table the only sound in the room.
He’s impossible—controlling, arrogant, always so sure of himself—and I should hate every part of him for it. But the truth is, every time he looks at me with those calm, unreadable eyes, something inside me stirs, something that feels dangerously close to wanting to know what’s underneath all that control.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity, maybe survival, maybe trying to understand the man who suddenly owns my time. But deep down, under the noise and the fear and the anger, I already know I’m lying to myself.
I get up and get ready for work.
CHAPTER SIX
Kira
The morning comes too fast. I don’t remember falling asleep, only that I kept turning the pages of his questionnaire over and over until the letters blurred. His handwriting is still in my head when I open my eyes.
I get up before the alarm. The air in the apartment feels heavy, like it’s still holding onto what happened last night. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks the same, but it doesn’t feel like me. I brush my hair, put on my clothes, and tell myself that today I’ll pretend everything is normal. That this thing with him is temporary. I can still be myself under all of it.
The automatic doors of the hospital hiss open, letting in the sharp sting of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Someone laughs down the hall, too loud for this hour, and the vending machine hums like it’s part of the staff. A janitor wheels his cart past me, nodding once, headphones in. The floor’s still slick from mopping.
I clock in, grab a pair of gloves from the box by habit, and nod to Maria at the station. She’s halfway through a muffin, eyes half-closed, the kind of tired only night shifts can give you.
“Morning,” she mutters.
“Barely,” I say, flipping through the first chart. The paper smells like sanitizer and exhaustion.
Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor starts beeping, steady and familiar as a heartbeat.
Work is the one place I can usually hide in. There’s no room for fear or attraction or men like him here. Just patients, vitals, and hours that blur together until it’s time to go home.
I’m halfway through helping Mrs. Novak, an eighty-two-year-old Alzheimer patient that keeps trying to convince me she’s ready to dance again, when I remember the trip to Sicily. My stomach twists. I can’t just disappear for days without lying to everyone I work with.
