Logic says she’ll be in the east wing. Guest rooms.
But instinct pulls me elsewhere. Toward the light.
I spot a faint glow through the kitchen door. Quiet movement. The scrape of a spoon against ceramic. A figure moving in low light, hair falling in dark waves down her back.
She’s barefoot, wearing silk that clings to her curves in the humid air. No bra; I can see her nipples through the thin fabric.My cock hardens painfully, and I have to grip the doorframe to keep from crossing the room and taking what I’ve been craving.
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
She startles. Just a breath. Then she turns.
Not afraid.
Not yet.
“You shouldn’t be out of your room,” she says. But her voice doesn’t rise. Her hand doesn’t reach for the panic button. She just watches me, assessing.
“And you shouldn’t be here alone,” I counter, stepping fully into the kitchen. “Yet here we are.”
Lightning hits the sky, turning her face to stark lines and shadows for a single beat. When it fades, something lingers, something like relief. Like my presence confirms a theory she hadn’t admitted to herself.
“Tea?” she offers, as if this is routine. As if we aren’t standing on the edge of an abyss.
I nod, moving closer.
“Why didn’t you go home, Mila?”
She doesn’t pretend the question is about the storm.
“My apartment was broken into,” she says, quiet but composed. “During our session. Nothing stolen. Just…touched. Enough to make a point.”
“The Colombian,” I say, though we both already know. My hands clench into fists. “Did he touch anything personal? Your bedroom?”
She shakes her head, but I see the tremor in her hands. “We don’t know it was him. Igor is having his men investigate. Someone just…moved things.”
“I’ll kill him.” The words escape before I can stop them. “Slowly.”
Her eyes widen. “Yakov?—”
“No one threatens you.”
She pours another cup, her hand steady until it isn’t. “They insisted I stay here until it’s handled. They brought me some clothes and personal items.”
I take the mug she offers, careful not to touch her fingers. Not yet.
But I’m close enough to feel her body heat, to see the pulse fluttering at her throat. Her pupils are blown wide, and I know she’s as affected as I am. The air between us crackles with everything we’re not saying, everything we’re barely holding back.
“Smart call,” I say, voice low. “Men like Montoya don’t go away. They escalate.”
She nods, and for a moment, we just stand there in the storm-lit hush of the kitchen, tea cooling between our palms, both of us waiting for something neither of us wants to admit we’re hoping for.
“That’s what Nikolai said,” she murmurs, watching me over the rim of her mug like she’s trying to read between the lines of a report she didn’t write. “How did you get out of your room?”
I lean back against the opposite counter, calculated distance, deliberate calm. “Does it matter?”
“It does if I’m the one meant to call the guards.”
“But you haven’t.” I tilt my head, watching her carefully. “Why is that, Mila?”
