I should still be thinking about Nikolai. About Kostya. About the compound, the city, the men waiting on decisions I haven’t made yet.
Instead I’m watching Ayla push her jeans down her legs and step out of them.
My focus narrows.
Sharpens.
She’s in black underwear and exhaustion now, skin glowing in the low gold light of the suite, shoulders looser than they were at the estate but not relaxed. There’s something careful in the way she moves, as if she’s trying not to take up too much space tonight.
I hate that. Something cold curls in my chest at the sight of it.
I don’t want her careful. I want her bold. I want her mean.
Mouthy.
Stubborn enough to spit in the face of my temper.
I want the version of her that glares at me and says no like she thinks it means something.
Not this quiet girl undressing three feet away while I stand here full of another man’s rage.
She reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra. My eyes follow the motion automatically. Heat slides through me, low and dark, cutting straight through the rest of it.
Feeding the anger.
The hooks come loose. She slides the straps down her arms and lets the bra fall.
My mouth goes dry. She glances at me then. Finally.
Only for a second, but it’s enough.
Enough to show me she knows I’m looking. Enough to show me she’s felt every second of my silence. Enough to show me she still hasn’t decided whether to challenge it.
Her voice, when it comes, is quiet from disuse. “I’m going to shower.”
The words are small. Simple enough. They still hit like a match dropped in gasoline.
Because now I’m not looking at a problem I can’t solve or a father I didn’t kill or a brother I’d gladly bury.
Now I’m looking at her. At bare skin I enjoy marking with my mouth.
At the line of her throat I wrap my hand around often.
At the vulnerable arch of her back when she turns away from me.
At the fact that she’s in my hotel room, in the clothes I buy her one hour and out of them the next, quiet in a way that feels all wrong.
My interest settles lower. Harder.
Possession follows right behind it.
She takes a step toward the bathroom. I move before I decide to.
“Ayla.”
Her name comes out rough. She stops. And in the beat before she does, I realize the anger isn’t gone. Not even close. It just finally found somewhere to go.
She turns slowly. Arms loose at her sides, chin up just enough to remind me she’s not cowering. Her eyes meet mine—flat, assessing, still carrying whatever she swallowed on the drive back. No spark yet. No fire. Just that careful distance I want to burn out of her.
