Her lips press together. No answer.
"Not should you want me. Not is it safe to want me." I lower my head until our foreheads nearly touch. "Do you want me the way you used to? The way you wanted me in Croatia, in that hotel room, when you begged me to?—"
"Don't."
But her fingers curl into my shirt. Holding on instead of pushing away.
"Answer the question, Red."
Her gaze drops to my mouth, lingering. And then she does something that sends every drop of blood in my body rushing south.
She bites the edge of her bottom lip—the way she used to when she wanted something she wasn't ready to ask for.
Fuck me.
I grip her chin, tilting her face up until she has no choice but to meet my eyes. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." Her voice has gone breathy. "For now."
A door I've been holding shut for months cracks open.
I'm so close I can feel her breath on my lips. One movement would close the gap entirely.
I've been dying to kiss her.
Her eyes flutter half-shut. Waiting. Wanting.
I stop—a hairsbreadth from her mouth.
"Tomorrow," I breathe against her lips. "Six a.m."
Then I step back.
"Go." I have to force the word out.
She stares at me, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. Looking absolutely fucking edible.
Then she turns, opens the door, and slips into the hallway without looking back.
I stand in the dark until her footsteps fade to nothing.
Then I get back to work.
The party has wounddown by the time I reach the library.
Most of the guests have retired to their cars, their drivers, their private jets waiting to ferry them back to whatever circle of hell spawned them. Staff clear plates and glasses, putting away food no one touched.
But Dashkov is still here.
I knew he would stay.
He's standing by the fireplace, admiring a painting Calder almost certainly stole from a private collection. A glass of scotch dangles from his fingers.
Alone.
Unguarded.
Just what I was hoping for.
