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Her breath catches. "So you'd rather bury us instead? Whatever this could be?"
"There is no us." The lie tastes like poison. "There's only survival."
She laughs, sharp and bitter. "Then why do you watch me? Why do your hands shake when you pour your vodka? Why do you stand outside my room at night?"
Because I'm a masochist. Because torturing myself is preferable to losing you entirely. Because even this cold war between us is better than the alternative.
"You're imagining things," I say.
"Am I?" She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo and feel the heat radiating from her skin. "Then touch me."
"What?"
"If I mean nothing, if this is just business, touch me. Put your hand on my arm. Kiss my forehead. Do what any husband would do with a wife who's just a liability."
The challenge in her voice nearly undoes me. My hands clench at my sides, fighting the urge to reach for her, to pull her against me and show her exactly how much she means.
"I can't," I whisper.
"Because you don't want to, or because you want to too much?"
The question breaks something inside me. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and cup her face in my palm. Her skin is silk and warmth and everything I've denied myself. She leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.
"Kira." Her name is a prayer and a curse.
She opens her eyes, and the want I see there mirrors my own. "I'm not her, Mikhail. I'm not Alina."
The sound of my first wife's name on her lips snaps me back to reality. I drop my hand and step away.
"No," I say roughly. "You're not. You're alive. And I intend to keep it that way."
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me.
"Running away won't change how you feel."
I pause in the doorway without turning around. "Watch me."
Hours later, I'm drunk. The vodka burns less now and slides down easier with each glass. The fire in my study has died to embers, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The house is quiet. Everyone is asleep except me.
Except I can hear her moving around upstairs. Pacing, maybe. Or maybe she can't sleep either, can't stop thinking about the way I touched her face, the want that crackled between us like electricity.
I pour another drink. My hands are steadier now, or maybe I'm just too numb to notice the shaking.
The clock strikes two. Then three. The bottle grows lighter in my hand.
I find myself at her door again, swaying slightly. The lock is a simple thing, nothing that can keep me out if I really want in. My fingers find the picks in my pocket, muscle memory guiding them even through the vodka haze.
The tumblers give way with soft clicks. The door swings open silently.
She's in bed, curled on her side, auburn hair spilled across the pillow. The moonlight through the window turns her skin luminous. She's wearing one of my shirts—when did she take it? The sight of her in my clothes does something primal to me, marking some territorial instinct I didn't know I still possessed.
I shed my clothes quietly, dropping them in a careless pile. The mattress dips under my weight as I slide in behind Kira, and she stirs.
"Mikhail?" Her voice is thick with sleep.
"Shh." I pull her against me and bury my face in her hair. She smells like vanilla and something uniquely hers. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
She tries to turn in my arms, but I hold her still, not ready to see the questions in her eyes.