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"And the separate bedrooms?" I ask, my voice barely audible above the storm. "Is that part of understanding me?"
A muscle tightens in his jaw. "That was for your protection."
"From what? From you?"
"Yes." The single word contains multitudes—confession, warning, perhaps even regret.
Elena returns, clearing our plates and replacing them with the main course. The interruption gives me time to collect myself, to rebuild the walls his unexpected candor had begun to crumble.
When we're alone again, Mikhail cuts into his steak with surgical precision, the knife glinting in his scarred hands. "You asked if you would ever love me," he says without looking up. "I heard you on the terrace."
Heat floods my cheeks. "You weren't meant to hear that."
"Yet I did." He raises his eyes to mine, and for the first time, I see something that might be vulnerability in their icy depths. "The better question might be whether I am capable of being loved at all."
The confession hangs between us, raw and unexpected. I find myself reaching across the table before I can think better of it, my fingers stopping just short of his.
"What happened to her?" I ask softly. "Your first wife?"
Pain flashes across his face, so visceral I can almost feel it. "Alina was killed because of who I am. Because of what I am." His voice is flat and controlled, but his knuckles have gone white around his knife. "I made a mistake, believing I could have something normal. Something good."
"And now?"
"Now I know better." His eyes meet mine, a storm raging behind them that rivals the one outside. "But knowing better doesn't seem to matter when it comes to you."
My breath catches. "What does that mean, Mikhail?"
He sets down his cutlery with deliberate care, then reaches across the distance between us. His fingers brush mine, calloused skin against soft, and the simple contact sends electricity racing up my arm.
"It means I'm making the same mistake twice," he murmurs. "And this time, with eyes wide open."
I lean back in my chair, trying to escape the intensity of his touch, but his fingers follow mine, tracing the delicate bones of my wrist. The wine has made me bold and reckless in a way that should terrify me.
"Maybe it's not a mistake," I whisper, the words escaping before I can cage them. "Maybe it's just... inevitable."
His thumb finds my pulse point, pressing gently against the frantic rhythm there. "You don't know what you're saying,kisa."
The endearment falls from his lips like honey and smoke, and something deep in my belly tightens at the sound. "Don't I?" I turn my hand palm up, letting our fingers intertwine. "I may have been sheltered, Mikhail, but I'm not naive."
Lightning splits the sky, casting us both in stark relief for one breathless moment. In that flash, I see something break open in his expression—a crack in the armor he wears so carefully.
"The wine is making you brave," he says, but his grip on my hand tightens.
"Good." I lift my glass with my free hand, taking another deliberate sip. The alcohol burns warm in my chest, loosening the careful control I've maintained for days. "I'm tired of being afraid."
"You should be afraid of me." His voice is rough velvet, a warning wrapped in desire. "I'm not a good man, Kira."
"I know exactly what you are." I lean forward, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous. "The question is whether you know what I am."
His eyes narrow, studying me with a predatory focus. "Enlighten me."
"I'm not the porcelain doll my father presented to your family." The words flow like silk, emboldened by wine and storm and the electric current running between us. "I'm not fragile. I won't break."
Something feral flickers in his gaze. "Careful, little wife. You're playing with fire."
"Then burn me." The challenge slips out before I can stop it, brazen and wanting.
The effect is immediate. Mikhail's chair scrapes against the marble as he pushes back from the table, rising to his full, intimidating height. But instead of walking away, he moves around the table with fluid grace, stopping beside my chair.