His thumb presses against the inside of my wrist, right where my heartbeat is racing. “You think I planned what happened earlier?” he says softly.
“I don’t know what you want.”
“Neither do I.”
The honesty in his tone scares me more than the anger ever could. I should pull away, but I don’t. His grip loosens, and before I can breathe, his fingers slide down, tracing the edge of my palm. My whole body reacts to it.
He’s watching me—his eyes steady, expression unreadable—like he’s trying to memorize the effect he has. My breath comes shallow, uneven. I want to step back, but my body betrays me.
“Artyom,” I say quietly, “let go.”
He does, but slowly as if letting go is its own kind of punishment.
“You should get dressed,” he says after a beat. “We’re expected downstairs.”
I cross my arms again, more for protection than defiance. “Then get out.”
He doesn’t. He moves to the window instead, the setting sun spilling gold across his shoulders. “I’ll wait.”
The words shouldn’t sound like a challenge, but they do.
I turn away, pretending not to care that he’s still there. My hands fumble with the zipper of my suitcase. The rustle of fabric sounds too loud in the quiet room. I pull out a black dress—simple, backless, too tight to breathe in—and lay it on the bed.
When I glance up, he’s still watching.
“Really?” I say. “You’re just going to stand there?”
He shrugs once. “We’ve shared worse.”
He takes a step forward, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to, and stops close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
His voice drops. “Get dressed.”
I can hear my heartbeat, pounding in my chest. His hand lifts again, hovering near my shoulder like he’s fighting himself. My breath catches anyway. I want to hit him again. I want to see him lose that control. I want him tofeelsomething.
Instead, I spin around. “Get out.”
“Not until you’re dressed.”
“I’m not getting dressed in front of you,” I spit, my voice thick.
He cocks his head, a gesture so casual it’s insulting. “Why not? You’re my fiancée.”
A new kind of fire flashes through me, colder and sharper than the anger. Fine. He wants a show? He wants to prove how little this means?
My eyes lock with his. I don't break the contact, even for a second. My hands go to the drawstring of my sweatpants, and I untie them. The movement is slow, deliberate. Challenging. His eyes don’t waver, but I see them darken, the pupils flaring to swallow the color. He’s expecting me to back down.
I shove the soft cotton down my hips. They catch for a moment, and I kick them away, the fabric pooling at my ankles. I step out of them. He looks at me, expectant. Waiting. That infuriating patience is still there, but a muscle in his jaw is ticking.
I got to him.
My fingers find the hem of my tank top. I hook them underneath and pull it up, slow, over my head, feeling the air hit the skin of my stomach. I pull it off and throw it to the floor.
I’m wearing nothing underneath.
The air in the room is cool, but it’s nothing compared to the ice of his stare. My nipples harden instantly, tightening into hard, aching points. It’s not the cold. It’s the way his eyes drag over them slowly, possessively.
He’s standing so close. The heat from his body rolls off him in waves, and I’m already dripping wet. The anger and the heat are all tangled up inside me, and my body, that traitor, doesn’t care about the difference.
