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He glares at me. Up close, the glare is worse. Better. His hands brace against my shoulders. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” I smile. I absolutely should not; amusement is gasoline where Ilya is concerned, especially when he’s furious. “That’s why it’s adorable.”
His gaze slips past me to the edge of a lash visible over my shoulder. Then his eyes return to mine. “When were you released?”
“Today.”
“How did you know about Alexei? And why did you help him?”
I shrug. The motion pulls at my back, but I ignore it.
“As much as I don’t like him, he means a lot to you. If he dies, you’ll be sad.”
I do not like Alexei. I do not like the way Ilya looks at him sometimes, like he is a fixed point. But Ilya sad is a problem I refuse to live with.
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
He presses his lips together. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“You helped me with Rei. Remember? We’re even.”
His walls begin crawling upward, and I hate every inch they reclaim. A moment ago he was here, and now I can feel him retreating. Some possessive part of me wants to tear every brick down with my bare hands and never let him hide from me again.
“This doesn’t mean… anything—”
I put a hand over his mouth. His eyes flash over my fingers. A little relieved, I think, that I stopped him before he could make it worse.
“Stop talking. Just don’t ruin it.”
He breathes against my palm. I keep my hand there, then take it away and rest it at the side of his neck instead.
“I want to show you something. Will you come with me?”
His brows draw together. “Kento—”
I kiss him until his mouth opens and his hands forget they were going to push, and then I speak against his lips.
“Say yes, or I’ll drag you.”
He scoffs, and the sound vibrates into my mouth. “You’re threatening me.”
“Please, Ilya.” I rub my lips together, already hating the weakness I can hear bleeding into my voice. I never sound like this, but somehow Ilya reaches into all the fortified parts of me and drags something soft out by the throat.
He looks at me, taken aback. “Okay… I will come.” His voice is as quiet as mine.
Ilya
I follow him. He doesn’t check to see if I am behind him. He always knows down to the inch where I am standing in a room. He brings me back to his studio, again.
I stop two paces past the threshold. Kento walks straight to the center of the floor.
“Why did you bring me here?” My voice comes out brittle.
He turns slowly. “I promised I would show you something.” He reaches for the nearest corner of the first white cloth. The canvas sheet whips back, and the air leaves my lungs. It is a life-sized oil portrait.
Me.
