Heat punches through my chest, sharp and immediate and I look away, jaw tight.
When she returns, dressed properly this time—tight jeans, a simple top, hair pulled back with a shaking hand—I still feel the pull between us, the memory of her breath against my throat when she fell asleep against me last night. The way she trembled in my hands after the attack, trusting me in ways she shouldn’t.
I force it down. There’s no room for this now.
“We leave in ten,” I say, stepping back into the hall so she can pass without brushing against me, because if she does, I don’t trust myself not to reach for her again. “Come downstairs when you’re ready.”
She nods slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the table. “Is—did something happen?”
“My father is ill,” I say, keeping my eyes on her because I need to see her reaction. “He wants me back immediately.”
Something flickers in her face—worry, confusion, maybe guilt, because of what she saw last night or because she doesn’t know whether she’s allowed to care.
“Kira,” I say quietly.
She stiffens. “Yes?”
I move toward her slowly, giving her time to pull back. She doesn’t, but every inch of her goes tense.
“I know that what you saw,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady. “I know it was… too much.”
She swallows, throat tight. “I wasn’t supposed to see any of that.”
“No,” I admit. “You weren’t.”
A long breath leaves her, shaky. “But I did, and I’m still here.”
Her eyes finally lift to mine, just for a moment, but it’s enough. The fear is still there, but so is something else that pulls at me in a way that makes everything inside me tense and unsteady.
“I don’t run,” she says softly.
For a moment, I lose every word I might’ve said. My chest tightens. My hands curl. I want to touch her, pull her in, tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid of me, even though she should be.
But I don’t get the chance because Mikhail bursts into the room.
“We move in ten minutes,” he says. “Camorra cleared the way. The cars are ready.”
Her eyes drop again, a small movement that feels like she’s pulling a curtain between us, and whatever fragile thread existed in the doorway snaps. I let out a slow breath I didn’t mean to hold, step back just enough to give her space, and tell myself not to think about how different this could have felt if what happened hadn’t happened.
I go downstairs with her trailing a few steps behind and every part of me is painfully aware of the distance she’s trying to keep without making it obvious. Mikhail is already in the lobby wrestling with Milana, who has decided she’d rather die than wake up before noon, while Calina stands beside them with her arms crossed, fully dressed, pretending she isn’t amused.
“Finally,” Calina says when she sees me, rolling her eyes in that deceptively dramatic way she uses when she’s actually worried. “Milana is being impossible.”
“I’m not impossible,” Milana mutters, pushing Mikhail’s hand off her shoulder. “I’m exhausted. These time zones are ruining my life.”
“Get in the car,” I say, and it comes out harsher than intended, but no one fights me on it.
The hotel doors slide open, letting in a warm rush of early sunlight, and we step out together. Two black SUVs wait by the curb, engines already running. The girls go in first, bickering quietly about who gets which seat. Mikhail follows them, shaking his head. I open the door for Kira and she climbs in without looking at me.
I settle beside her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her legs, close enough that one wrong movement would have her thigh brushing mine. I force my hand to stay on my knee, not on her, not anywhere near the soft skin she exposed when she bent over to grab her bag earlier.
The door shuts, sealing us inside.
The drive starts slow. The city peels away behind tinted windows, and the silence in the car gains its own weight. Kira sits angled just slightly away from me, her shoulder turned, her focus glued to the view outside as if staring at passing streets will keep her mind busy enough to forget I’m here.
When the airport finally comes into view through the glass, she goes almost completely still, her lips parting just slightly, drawing in a shaky breath, and color drains from her face. That’s when I remember her fear of flying. I watch her swallow hard, her fingers tightening again around the leather strap.
And despite everything, the cold distance she tried to put between us this morning or the way she flinched when she saw me at her door, something in me shifts because I don’t want herstepping onto that plane alone with this fear, and I don’t want her thinking for even a second that I won’t notice.
