Page 15

Mikhail

I watch her retreat to her room, the soft click of the lock an accusation that echoes through the hollow space between us. My fingers tighten around the empty glass until I fear it might shatter in my grip. The vodka burns in my throat, but it doesn't numb the ache spreading through my chest.

Liability. The word hangs in the air, poisonous and necessary.

I pour another drink, downing it in one harsh swallow. The grandfather clock ticks relentlessly in the corner, marking each second she spends behind that locked door, each moment I spend standing here, paralyzed by my own cruelty.

Five days. Five days of deliberately avoiding Kira's touch, her gaze, her very presence. Five days of leaving before dawn and returning after midnight, of showering away her scent, of lying beside her rigid body in the dark, every muscle straining not to reach for her.

Five days of absolute fucking torture.

And yet, my mind betrays me, replaying that night in vivid detail—her skin flushed beneath my hands, her breath catching as I entered her, the way she whispered as she unraveled in my arms. The trust in her eyes as she gave herself to me completely.

Trust I've now shattered.

"Fuck," I mutter to myself. I should never have touched her.

Should never have allowed myself that one night of forgetting who I am, what I've done, and what awaits us both if I falter.

Alina is gone because I made the mistake of loving my wife too openly, of treating her as more than the political alliance she represented.

I will not make the same mistake twice.

Yet, as I climb the stairs to the east wing, my feet carry me not to my room but to her door. I stand outside, listening. No sound comes from within—no sobbing, no movement. Just silence––as absolute as the space I've forced between us.

My hand rises and hovers near the polished wood. One knock and I could undo the damage. I could tell her that the coldness is an act, that I've been distant because the alternative terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.

But then what? Hold her close only to have her ripped away? Watch her bleed out in my arms while I stand helpless, destroyed not just by her death but by the knowledge that I caused it?

No. Better Kira hate me and live than love me and die.

My hand falls away from the door. I retreat to my study, pour another drink, and lose myself in work until dawn bleeds across the horizon.

When I emerge, she's already in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a simple blouse, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She doesn't look up when I enter but continues spreading butter on her toast with controlled movements.

"Good morning," I offer, the words falling flat between us.

She doesn't respond, doesn't acknowledge my presence at all. She finishes her toast, rinses her plate in the sink, and walks past me as if I'm invisible. Her perfume lingers in the air. I inhale deeply, hating myself for craving even this slight trace of her.

Days pass this way. She becomes a ghost in our home, present but unreachable. When I enter a room, she leaves it. When I speak, she doesn't listen. When I reach for the salt at dinner, she withdraws her hand as if my touch might burn.

It's what I wanted. It's exactly what I fucking wanted.

And it's killing me.

I find myself watching her when she doesn't notice.

The way she curls in the window seat with a book, the afternoon light turning her auburn hair to fire.

How she speaks softly to Yuri, my most hardened enforcer, making him blush like a schoolboy as she asks about his mother's health.

The graceful line of her neck as she tilts her head to study one of the paintings in the hallway.

My wife. Mine. Yet never more unreachable.

Tonight, I come home earlier than usual. The house is quiet, but a light burns in the library. I loosen my tie as I approach, preparing for another silent encounter, another exercise in restraint.

I find her asleep on the leather couch, a book open on her chest, rising and falling with each breath. Her face, in repose, is younger, softer, unmarked by the coldness I've taught her to wear in my presence. A strand of auburn hair has escaped her ponytail, curling against her cheek.

Without thinking, I reach down to brush it away.

Her eyes snap open, startlingly blue and instantly alert. For a fraction of a second, before memory returns, I see warmth there—then nothing. The shutters come down, and she sits up abruptly, the book tumbling to the floor.

"Don't," she says, the first word she's spoken to me in days. It hangs between us, heavy with meaning.

"Kira—"

"No." She stands, putting the couch between us. "You made yourself clear. I'm a liability. A business transaction. I understand my place now."

"That's not—" I begin but stop. What can I say? That I lied? That the truth is worse—that I'm terrified of how much I want her, need her, could love her if I allowed myself?

"Not what?" Her voice is steady, but I see I see the pain in her eyes. "Not what you meant? Then what did you mean, Mikhail?"

My name in her mouth still does things to me, still makes heat pool low in my belly despite everything. I take a step toward her, and she takes one back.

"I meant that I can't afford distractions," I say finally. "The Novikovs?—"

"Are a convenient excuse." Her eyes flash. "If you don't want me, just say it. Don't hide behind business and danger and whatever else helps you sleep at night."

"You think I'm sleeping?" The words escape before I can stop them, raw and revealing. "You think I close my eyes and don't see you? Don't remember how you felt under me, around me? Don't hear you saying my name like it's something sacred instead of something damned?"

She stares at me, color rising in her cheeks. For a moment, neither of us speaks––the only sound is our ragged breathing in the quiet library.

"Then why?" she whispers finally. "Why push me away?"

The truth hovers on my tongue, desperate to be spoken. I swallow it back, tasting ash.

"Because wanting isn't enough," I say instead. "Because some things are more important than desire."

"Like what?"

"Like keeping you alive.”

Her face goes pale, then flushes with something that might be anger or understanding or both.

"That's not your choice to make," she says, but her voice wavers.

"Isn't it?" I move closer, and this time she doesn't retreat. "I've buried one wife, Kira. I won't bury another."

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.

"You're drunk," she murmurs.

"Yes." There's no point in denying it. "Too drunk to pretend I don't want you."

Now she does turn, and I let her. Her eyes are wide in the darkness, searching my face.

"Mikhail—"

I kiss her before she can finish, pouring all my hunger, desperation, and fear into the contact. She tastes like toothpaste and sleep and forgiveness I don't deserve. Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer.

"Please," I whisper against her lips. "Let me... I need..."

"What do you need?"

"You. Just you."

She kisses me back then, soft and sweet and devastating. I trail my mouth down her throat, tasting salt and silk, feeling her pulse flutter under my lips.

"I've been going insane," I confess against her collarbone. "Watching you, wanting you, knowing I can't have you."

"You can," she breathes. "You can have me."

I work my way lower, pushing up the shirt she wears—my shirt—to expose the curve of her waist and the soft swell of her breasts. She arches under my touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"So beautiful," I murmur, mapping every inch of exposed skin with my mouth. "So perfect."

When I reach the apex of her thighs, she tenses, hands fisting in the sheets.

"Let me worship you," I whisper, pressing kisses to her inner thighs. "Let me show you what you mean to me."

She nods, breathless, and I lose myself in her taste, her scent, and the way she calls my name like a prayer when I use my tongue to drive her toward the edge of pleasure.

Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging desperately as I work her with my mouth, alternating between gentle caresses and firm pressure.

She tastes like honey and sin, like everything I've been denying myself these past torturous days.

The soft sounds she makes—gasps and whimpers and my name broken on her lips—fuel something primal in me.

"Misha," she breathes, and the nickname she's never used before nearly undoes me. "Please, I?—"

My finger plunges into her soaked pussy, my tongue relentlessly circling her swollen clit.

Her body’s reaction to my every touch is fucking perfection, her back arching, hips writhing like she was born for this moment, born for me.

The thought scares the shit out of me and turns me on like nothing else.

Her thighs clench around my head as I drive her closer to her climax, my free hand gripping her hip to keep her in place. She's on the edge—I can feel it in the way her body tightens, hear it in the increasingly desperate moans escaping her lips.

"Come for me, kisa ," I growl against her dripping cunt. "Let me feel you come all over my face."

She detonates with a scream that goes straight to my throbbing cock, her body spasming as orgasmic waves crash through her. I ride her through it, easing my touch as she descends, pressing feather-light kisses to her trembling inner thighs, tasting her release.

When I finally lift my head, she's gazing at me with fuck-drunk eyes, chest heaving. Her hair is a chaotic mess against the pillows, lips parted and bee-stung. She's a vision of raw, sexual abandon.

"Fuck me," she pants, reaching for me.

I prowl up her body, settling my weight carefully over her. She crushes her mouth to mine, licking her release from my lips without an ounce of inhibition, and it nearly obliterates the last of my self-control.

"I want you," she breathes heavily against my mouth. "All of you. Not just tonight."

Her words cut through the vodka haze, making the world come crashing back. The danger. The Novikovs. Alina's blood on my hands.

“Kira—"

"No." She grips my face with determination, forcing me to lock eyes with her. "No barriers. Not tonight. Just be with me. Really with me."

Her legs envelop my waist, and I can feel the burning heat of her against me. It would be so easy to sink into her depths, to lose myself in her intoxicating warmth and pretend the outside world doesn't exist.

Too easy. Too dangerous.

But when she kisses me again, soft and imploring, I surrender completely.