She’s right, of course. The rational part of me knows that. But there’s something about seeing her standing there, small buthanging on to her pride, her pulse jumping at the base of her throat, that makes rationality useless.
“He insulted you.”
“He insulted everyone,” she says, finally meeting my gaze. “You just took it personally.”
I study her face, the quick rise and fall of her breath, the way she won’t look away even when she should. “You think I shouldn’t?”
“I think you don’t need to prove anything.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. For a moment, I forget we’re in a room full of people pretending not to watch us.
“Next time,” she says, softer now, “don’t make me the target of whatever game this is.”
“It’s not a game.”
She takes a step closer. “Feels like one.”
Her voice is calm, but her eyes aren’t. They’re bright, almost fevered, and I realize she’s shaking slightly. Not from fear, but from anger. From humiliation. From everything that just happened in front of half the lobby.
“You handled yourself fine,” I say.
“Don’t patronize me, Artyom.”
I almost smile at that. “You really have no idea who you just talked back to, do you?”
“I don’t care who he is.”
I lean in, just enough for her to feel it. “You should.”
She doesn’t move. “And you should stop thinking everyone has to be afraid of you.”
For a second, all I can hear is the sound of her breathing. She smells like something clean and familiar, like soap and a trace of fear that somehow makes me want to pull her closer instead of push her away.
“Careful, Kira,” I murmur. “You’re testing limits you don’t understand.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t back down. “Then explain them to me.”
The heat that flares between us is almost tangible. Every instinct in me wants to end this conversation in a way that would make it worse—press her against the nearest wall until she forgets how to talk. But there are still eyes, whispers, cameras. I can feel them all.
I exhale slowly, step back. “We’re done here.”
She crosses her arms. “You mean, we embarrassed you enough for one day.”
I meet her gaze. “No. I mean before I do something I’ll actually regret.”
Her throat tightens and I assume it’s because she doesn’t know if I mean hitting Boris or kissing her. Maybe I don’t either.
“Come on,” I say finally, nodding toward the elevator. “Let’s go to our room.”
We walk side by side through the lobby. Every step feels like dragging gravity itself. Mikhail trails behind, muttering something about needing a drink. People part for us as we move, but I can still feel their eyes, the whisper of conversation snapping back into place as soon as we pass.
Halfway to the elevator, I glance at the reflection in the polished marble wall. Kira’s looking straight ahead, her expression carved in steel, but her hands are trembling. I want to take them, but I don’t.
The elevator doors slide open. We step inside. The metal closes around us with a quiet hiss that sounds too much like relief. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. The mirrored walls throw our reflections back at us—me, composed but burning inside; her, small but fierce, lips pressed tight.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Could’ve gone worse.”
I let out a low breath, half a laugh. “Could it?”
