For a second, my mind goes straight to Lilly, ready for some harmless message about a patient or a shift, but the moment my eyes land on the number, everything inside me turns cold and tight, like someone reaches straight into my chest and squeezes.
It’s my brother’s number.
I open the text and read.
Kira. I’m fine but I need to see you. I will contact you soon. Don’t let him find out.
My stomach twists so fast it makes me dizzy, and my fingers clamp hard around the phone. The room feels smaller, the air getting thick as I stare at those words. Part of me wants to cry, part of me wants to scream, and part of me feels this sick, guilty relief that he’s alive, even if I know better than to trust the way he says it.
I delete the message without thinking, the movement sharp and desperate, like erasing the text will somehow erase the consequences that are already crawling under my skin. I shove the phone under pillow, because I know Artyom will notice, andI can’t let him see my face right now, not like this, not with my heart racing so loud I can feel it in my fingertips.
My insides feel weak for a second, and I press my palm to the nightstand to steady myself, but the guilt keeps climbing higher, mixing with fear and something else that I don’t want to name, because now that there’s Artyom in the equation, I don’t know how to balance them without losing a part of myself in the process.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Artyom
The steam follows me out of the bathroom, warm against my back as I rub a towel over my hair, trying to shake off the heat and settle the rush still running under my skin after everything that happened downstairs. I’m still thinking about that kiss, about the way she looked at me before she left for the bathroom, about the tension humming between us like a live wire.
But the second I step into the room, everything inside me slows.
Kira’s sitting on the edge of the bed like she’s trying to fold into the smallest version of herself, her shoulders tight, her breath shallow, eyes fixed on a magazine she’s not actually reading. The pages aren’t moving, her gaze keeps slipping, and her fingers are clenched around the edges like she needs something to hold onto, so she doesn’t fall apart.
Something’s wrong.
“Hey,” I say, voice low, testing her reaction.
She startles slightly, then forces a smile that doesn’t even pretend to be real. “Hi.”
Her eyes flick down my body too quickly for her to pretend she didn’t look, then snap back up with a blush crawling up her throat. Normally I’d tease her, or at least let myself smirk, but the tension in her shoulders tells me this isn’t about me walking out half-naked. She looks like she saw a ghost and is trying to pretend she didn’t.
I drop the towel on the chair and reach for my clothes. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
It’s automatic, and she’s terrible at lying, which normally I’d find almost endearing, but not today.
I open my closet, pull out black pants and a shirt, start dressing slowly while keeping her in the corner of my eye. She keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, fiddling with the corner of the blanket like she needs to tear something apart just to stay upright.
“You sure?” I ask, slipping my shirt over my shoulders. “You look pale.”
Her jaw tightens. “I said I’m fine.”
That sharp, defensive tone means she’s hiding something but pushing her won’t get me answers. All it’ll do is make her shut down more, so I don’t push.
I button my shirt and walk toward her, and she goes even more still, like she’s bracing for something, and I just stand close enough that she has to feel my presence, but not enough to touch.
“I have another meeting downstairs,” I tell her. “It won’t take long.”
She swallows hard, but she nods. “Okay.”
I exhale slowly, fighting the urge to tilt her chin up so she’ll look at me and tell me what the hell happened while I was in the shower. I can feel the distance between us pulled too tight, one wrong move away from snapping.
I grab my watch, fasten it onto my wrist, then walk to the door, pausing for a moment because she’s still sitting there on the bed like she’s trying not to move too fast or too suddenly, like any shift in her body might give away whatever the hell she’s hiding. She doesn’t look up when I pull the handle, only smooths her dress with slow, distracted movements that tell me more than any words would.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say, keeping my voice steady, softer than I mean to. “Stay here.”
She nods without lifting her eyes. “Okay.”
