“And Irina?” I ask, my voice quieter now, angrier for it. “Was she part of the deal too?”
His gaze darkens. “Doesn’t matter.”
I cross my arms even though my hands are trembling. “Why? Because it’s inconvenient? Because it makes you look like the bad guy?”
He takes another step, and suddenly the distance between us feels smaller than air. “You think this is about looking good?”
“I think it’s about control. You control everything, everyone. You even control how angry I’m allowed to be.”
His eyes darken as he takes me in, and when he speaks again, his voice drops lower, rough around the edges. “You should see yourself right now.”
My breath catches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He takes a step closer, close enough that the heat from him cuts through the air. “You’re shaking. Flushed. Furious.” His eyes drag down my face, slow, deliberate. “It’s a good look on you.”
“Burn in hell,” I whisper.
He almost smiles. “Already burning.”
The way he says it should make me hate him more, but it doesn’t. It hits somewhere lower, curling through me until I can’t tell if it’s anger or something worse.
He moves closer, step by step, until there’s barely any space left. I can feel the warmth coming off him, the faint rush of his breath when he exhales. His scent wraps around me, and it’s infuriating how much I notice it.
My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to fill the silence for both of us. He looks down at me like he’s memorizing the shape of the moment, his gaze heavy enough to feel like touch.
His hand lifts. Hesitates. Then his fingers brush my cheek, slow enough that I forget how to breathe. The touch barely skims my skin, but it feels electric, dangerous—like he’s daring me to move first.
“Don’t,” I whisper, though it sounds nothing like a warning.
His mouth curves, faint and dark. “Don’t what?”
“Do something you might regret.”
He leans in a fraction closer, his breath catching at my ear. “I never regret anything.”
The air between us thickens, pulsing with the kind of quiet that could turn into anything. My body tenses, waiting for him to kiss me.
But he stops.
His hand falls away, leaving behind a trail of heat that feels like a bruise. For a long moment, neither of us moves. We’re just there, suspended between everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t, breathing the same air, both too proud to close the distance.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, steadier, but the edge is still there. “You shouldn’t have found out like that,” he says. “But I don’t owe you anything.”
I shake my head. “You owe me honesty.”
“I owe you results,” he says. “And your brother being alive is one of them.”
The words cut, and I know he meant them to. I feel it in the tightness in his voice, in the way his shoulders draw back like he’s reclaiming distance.
“That’s all this is to you, isn’t it?” I say quietly. “A transaction.”
He looks at me for a long time, something flickering in his eyes that doesn’t match the words he says next. “Yes.”
I don’t know what makes me move—anger, pride, or that ache I can’t seem to bury. My hand hits his chest before I know it, a weak, useless push that doesn’t move him an inch.
“Stop lying.”
He catches my wrist, firm enough to make my pulse stumble.
