Page 22 of The Last Dance

I toweled off and ran a hand through my hair, then pulled on clean black boxers and a T-shirt, both soft enough to keep from scratching the abrasions on my shoulders.

At the threshold to the bedroom, I paused, drinking in the sight of him in my bed, one arm flung out over the empty space where I planned to be in less than sixty seconds.

I grabbed my cell phone and called Lin from the bathroom doorway, my voice low so as not to wake the boy. “Breakfast for two,” I said. “Nine o’clock. And clothes for the guest.”

“Preferences?” Lin asked.

I considered. “Something comfortable. He’s smaller than me, but not fragile.”

“I’ll see to it,” Lin said, and hung up.

The efficiency was better than family. The loyalty was absolute.

I got into bed, careful not to disturb the lines of the sheet more than necessary. Iren was still dead asleep, mouth open, cheek mashed against the pillow. I lie on my side, close enough to touch, but not touching.

For a minute, I just watched him, cataloguing the micro-movements of his face, the way his eyes twitched under the lids, the small quiver in the muscle just below his jaw. I traced the ridges of his spine with my eyes, counting vertebrae.

I told myself I’d just watch, but after less than a minute I reached out, flattening my hand against his back. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and the thrum of his heartbeat was visible at his neck.

I slid closer, letting my chest press into his back, my legs bracketing his. He made a sound—not a protest, but more like the sleepy complaint of someone being woken from a dream.

He twisted, slow, until his face was turned up toward mine, eyes still half-shut and dark with the last dregs of exhaustion.

I waited. I wanted to see if he’d say anything.

He didn’t. He just reached out, blindly, and found my arm, anchoring himself there. His hand flexed, nails dragging lightly against my skin, and then he settled, burrowing his nose against my bicep.

I closed my eyes and let the reality of the moment settle in. I had him, here, in my bed, within the reach of every defense I’d ever constructed. It should have made me feel powerful.

Instead, it made me feel exposed, in the way a man feels exposed when he realizes he has one thing left to lose.

Iren’s body fit against mine with the unconscious precision of a long habit, as if he’d always belonged there. I let my hand roam over his hip, up his ribcage, down the line of his thigh. He didn’t stir. He just breathed, the rhythm syncing up with mine.

I lay there, thinking. About the tail on the road. About Parsons and his predictable escalation. About how, in the morning, the first thing I would do is send Yuri to clean up whatever mess awaited us. About how Iren’s apartment was not only a security risk, but an insult to anyone who wanted to claim him.

I thought about how easy it would be to make it disappear. About how much easier it would be to convince him to stay.

I thought about the word he’d said in the amber room, the word that had surprised both of us. Yours.

I thought about the way he’d looked up at me, unafraid, and chosen to move forward anyway. The kind of bravery that can only come from having nothing left to protect.

I thought about how that made me feel, and realized it didn’t matter. He was mine. The logic was simple, even if the feeling wasn’t.

I squeezed him, just a little, and felt him breathe. I let the warmth of him anchor me. Tomorrow, the world would try to take it away.

Tonight, it was enough just to keep it.

Chapter Seven

~ Iren ~

Waking up in a stranger’s bed is never supposed to be pleasant, but silk sheets have a way of undermining tradition. My first sensory impressions, in order:

One, there was no ceiling water stain shaped like a dinosaur, which was statistically impossible given my lifetime average.

Two, I was still alive, but possibly not in the conventional sense.

And three, the mattress underneath me was so soft it could have been engineered for royalty, or at least someone who’d shot their way into the upper tax brackets.