Page 21 of These Shattered Memories

Chapter Eleven: Rowan

T his a bad idea. Anyone sane would know that this is a terrible idea, and I’ve lost my damn mind, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious that Alexander Kimura makes me anything but sane.

So, instead of taking him back to his apartment, I find myself driving into the winding neighbourhoods of Queen’s Peak, not to my apartment but instead, to a quiet townhouse nestled in a cul-de-sac flanked by houses that belong to government officials, old money barons and wealthy investment bankers.

I bought this house years ago to escape The Snake’s watchful eye and lick my wounds—mostly inflicted by Alex. Ila keeps it spotless, though I rarely come here these days.

I really shouldn’t be doing this but I’m already opening the front door, watching Alex’s eyes roam over the entrance hall, the high ceiling, the expensive abstract artwork by a Russian painter I once enjoyed collecting, and finally the staircase that leads to the second floor.

Some of the alcohol has worn off, but he still looks a little unsteady, like he might tip over at any moment.

God, I really shouldn’t have brought him here, but what was I supposed to do? When I saw that guy hitting on him outside that bar, something hot and dangerous rose through me so quickly it was almost blinding.

I’m not delusional enough to deny what it was. But it wasn’t just jealousy. It was something darker, deeper, the kind of possessiveness I should have stopped feeling the morning I got arrested.

“Is this your house?” he asks, his voice more confident and steadier than I’d expected it to be. “It’s different from your old apartment. Homier.”

I look back at him and his eyes are wide, like he didn’t mean to say it. Clearly the alcohol has loosened his tongue even though he didn’t say a single word in the car and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t breathing, either.

“It is.”

He presses his lips together then, “Wait, this isn’t where you usually stay, is it? If it was, this place would be crawling with guards. They can’t leave the precious Vasilyev sons alone for too long.”

I glance at him. “Who said I didn’t send them away?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t think you did. It’s clean in here, looks completely unlived in. No shoe rack or coat hanger.”

Alexander Kimura, ever the observant detective, even in the midst of his inebriation.

“Do I strike you as a shoe rack kind of guy?” I ask, but we both know he’s right.

Instead of admitting that, I head straight down a short hallway and into the modern kitchen with white marble countertops and black cabinets with brass hardware that I know many would kill for but is mostly wasted on me.

I open the cupboard next to the fridge. I need a glass of water. Maybe whisky. Something to distract me.

Ah, there it is .

Ila left my favourite bottle in one of the cabinets. Bless her.

I take out two glasses, only pouring the whisky in one and pouring water in the other. I slide it across the marbled island to Alex, who looks at the water with a raised eyebrow.

“Drink,” I instruct.

He looks at the glass again, like it might be filled with poison.

“Are we going to talk about what happened?” he asks finally, still looking at the glass.

I try my best to look dumb. “What happened?”

“You breaking into my apartment and threatening to kill me?” he says confidently. “Which, by the way, I didn’t think you’d do; you know?”

I tilt my head. “Do what?”

“Kill me. In my apartment. I didn’t think you’d do it.” This time he meets my eyes, dark pupils dilated enough to almost cover the brown of his irises.

I can’t tell if he’s fucking with me or not.

“Why not?”

I take a sip of the whisky. It doesn’t burn, just warms my throat and then my stomach. I should feel myself relax, but all I feel is the palpable tension in the air. As if mimicking me, Alex sips on his water too, smiling when he places the glass on the counter.

“Because you didn’t kill me the first time. Your brothers, your guards, no one came for me, and I don’t think they will.”

“You underestimate my ability to hold a grudge,” I say.

He laughs, outright and openly, a soft quiet thing that makes his glossy eyes crinkle and I hate it. I hate how well he’s managed to read me. I hate that he thinks I’m a coward for failing every single time.

“So, do it,” he says finally, eyes daring me. “Kill me. You have me all alone again. You can stab me, shoot me, strangle me. It’s your pick. I’ll stand right here and let you do it.”

I stare at him for a long moment, weighing my options. He’s right. I could kill him here and no one would ever know, except maybe that guy from the bar, but he’d be an unreliable witness. Maybe this is really my chance.

I place my glass back on the counter and walk around the island to stand in front of him.

Alex follows me with his eyes, swallowing as he backs up against the wood and marble of the island.

I stop in front of him, and we’re only a few inches apart, an arm’s length between us.

I can see every inch of him, every mark, every eyelash, his cupid’s bow and that beauty mark that sits at the right corner of his bottom lip.

He’s agonisingly beautiful.

“Is that what you want?” I ask.

He swallows. “If it means I don’t have to keep feeling like this.”

As soon as he says it, he takes in a sharp breath, like he’s just said something he shouldn’t have.

Is he also feeling as exhausted as I do? Maybe it should be comforting, but all it does is piss me off because why is he exhausted? We’re here because of him.

Before I can stop myself, I take another step forward and my hand travels to the base of his throat. His skin is warm and flushed from the alcohol, his pulse racing against my palm. He swallows, the only hint of his nervousness under that drink-inspired bravado.

All I have to do is tighten my grip and watch the life drain out of him.

I want to do it so badly.

“Why did you get the tattoo?” I ask finally.

I need him to tell me it’s because he wanted to remember the day he got everything he wanted—a rising star in Senna’s OCU. I need him to tell me that I was na?ve, that he enjoyed doing it. I need him to say it so we can end this for good.

His lips part, a quiet breath leaving his mouth. My palm burns, his quickening pulse racing on my skin.

“I wanted to remember you.” It’s so quiet that for a moment I think I heard wrong, but then, he says it again, “I wanted to remember you— us . Isn’t that sad?

” He smiles weakly. “I said I loved you that night and you never said it back, but I still got a tattoo just so I could remember how it felt to be with you.”

The words take too long to sink in. They soak inside me slowly, until they are the only thing I can think of.

Those words and that tattoo. My own heart races in my chest as I watch his eyes gloss over with moisture.

Suddenly, it’s like he burns, and I have to let him go.

I withdraw my hand, leaving a faint red impression on his neck.

“You’re lying,” I hear myself say. It’s all I can come up with. All I can allow myself to think.

Alex huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Of course, you think I’m lying.”

He makes a move to slip past me, but I hold his elbow before he can, slamming him back against the edge of the island and words are tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Show me,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

Alex is my personal signal blocker, stopping any coherent thoughts from going anywhere past my brain and leaving my mouth to its own devices.

“What?”

“Show me.”

He watches me for a tense second, nostrils flaring, but then he does the impossible; he slips off his shirt in one quick swoop, revealing his torso.

My mouth goes dry and then fills up with saliva as I stare back at him.

When he was tied up in that chair, I didn’t get a good look at him, but now I see him fully.

He’s still incredibly lean, but it’s clear he works out.

A few years in the Organised Crime Unit and proper feeding has him trim and cut, broad shoulders tapering into a small waist.

I keep my breathing steady as my eyes land on the ink of the tattoo and once again I’m back in Summit, letting him pull me in even when I know I should stay far away.

The air is charged with something, like electricity coursing between us. Before I can stop myself, I’m reaching forward, my right hand resting on his waist and my left, running my thumb over the ink of the tattoo.

I feel him flinch in my hold, but thankfully, he doesn’t push me away. I like that he lets me touch him. I meet his eyes and even though I know I should let him go; I don’t. I just stand there, holding his waist.

“Rowan.”

“Alex.”

“Please kiss me,” he says, voice almost too quiet to hear over the buzzing in my head.

My thumb stops moving and I stare at him, trying to compute the words.

No .

This is wrong.

This isn’t how this is supposed to go, but I still don’t move away when I whisper a hard, “No.”

He blinks once, hurt flashing across his eyes. I hate that it doesn’t make me as happy as it should. I hate that I feel guilty for making him look at me like that.

I hate him.

“Rowan,” he says my name again, his voice so quiet I can barely hear him. It sounds like a plea, like he’s asking me for something that I don’t think either of us should give. And yet, all I’d have to do is lean in and he’d be mine.

But that isn’t what I want. I want to ruin him. I want him to pay for everything he’s done.

Don’t I?

I close my eyes, clenching my jaw and take a step back, letting him go and hating the feeling of nothing on my palms.

“No,” I say again, this time more to myself rather than to him.

Disappointment flares in his eyes and somehow that’s worse than any look he’s given me so far.

I should hate him. He should be dead.

But I don’t and he isn’t.