Artyom says nothing, but his hand leaves my chair. The sudden absence of it feels colder than it should.
The last hand begins. The pot is heavy, the room tense with it. I win again, and the dealer whistles low under his breath. Nobody says anything after that.
Artyom still hasn’t said a word but his thumb goes back to moving in slow, idle circles against the back of my chair, like he’s grounding himself—or me. It’s strange, but that small motion keeps me steady. When I glance up, his eyes are on me, unreadable but alive in a way I haven’t seen before.
Boris chuckles under his breath. “Luck, or training?”
I meet his eyes across the table, forcing myself not to look away. “My brother taught me.”
Artyom’s gaze sharpens at that, a flash of something that looks almost like understanding. Or maybe warning.
Boris lifts his glass, eyes flicking over me like I’m something he found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Pretty little thing. Fragile, though.” His gaze drops to my hands. “She trembled during the game. I thought you’d choose someone with a steadier backbone.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Behind me, I feel Artyom go still in that way he does when something hits a nerve.
His voice comes quiet and edged, the tone that not loud but making everyone straighten. “What’s wrong, Boris? Didn’t like losing at poker tonight?”
“Oh, don’t start,” Boris says with a dry laugh. “I’m simply curious. You had an alliance with my family, and now you show up with...” He waves a hand at me like I’m a misplaced appetizer. “Hard not to ask questions.”
Artyom’s voice is low and controlled. “If you have a problem, speak to me. Don’t aim at her.”
For a brief second, Boris studies him, something sharper slipping through the surface. Then he sets his napkin down and stands. “I’ve said enough.”
Boris just pushes back his chair and stands, like he’s finally bored of the whole thing. Then he turns and walks off without another word, slowly walking away from the table.
Silence falls heavy in his wake. I realize my hands are clenched so tight my nails have left small half-moons on my palms. I uncurl them slowly, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest.
Artyom doesn’t move right away. His jaw works like he’s grinding down a thousand things he wants to say. The tension in his shoulders ripples like a tide he’s forcing back. Around us, the music swells—soft jazz, polished and slow—but nobody’s really listening. Conversations start in low murmurs at nearby tables, the sound of glasses clinking, the dull rustle of clothes shifting.
I watch him breathe, long and steady, like he’s counting each exhale. It takes a while before the tightness in his face loosens and the stiffness in his stance begins to fade. He turns his headslightly, eyes flicking over the crowd, and when they find mine, something in them has changed.
He straightens his cuffs with that same cold precision he always has, as though nothing just happened, as though the air between him and Boris didn’t almost crack open.
Then, after another long silence, he speaks, soft enough that I almost don’t believe I heard him right. “Let’s dance.”
I blink. “What?”
He steps closer, extending his hand. The move is effortless, practiced, but the quiet roughness in his voice betrays him. “If I stand here any longer, I’ll do something I’ll regret. So, dance.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kira
For a second, I just stare at him. There’s a weight in his eyes that wasn’t there before, a kind of. He’s still angry, still burning under the surface, but there’s also this… need to shift the focus, to ground himself in something that isn’t violence.
I place my hand in his before I can talk myself out of it. His fingers close around mine, strong but steady, and the heat of his palm spreads up my arm like static. He leads me toward the floor where couples are already moving, slow and graceful under the golden light.
The moment his hand closes around mine, the rest of the room disappears.
His palm is warm, calloused in the center but his hold careful. He doesn’t look at me as he leads me to the dance floor, people parting without being told, the music wrapping around us. I feellike this is a mistake and I should pull away, but my legs move before I decide to.
His hand settles on my back, low enough to make me forget how to breathe. The other holds mine lightly, a contrast that feels deliberate—control and restraint, pressure and permission. My chest brushes his with every slow step, and I can smell him: smoke, citrus, a trace of expensive whiskey.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his collar, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as we move.
“Because I need to stop thinking about killing him.” His voice is rougher than before, low enough that I feel it in my stomach.
“That’s comforting,” I murmur, my fingers tightening slightly in his.
