Page 114 of Boardroom Mask

I open my mouth to tell him something—I haven’t quite decided what, exactly—but I never get the chance.

Before I can, a hand shoots past my shoulder and snares the man by the front of his shirt. Kir materializes behind me so fast it’s as if the fog itself spat him out.

“Get the fuck away from her.”

Kir has changed. Everything about him—eyes, hands, posture—is different than it was ten minutes ago. The man who froze and ran from me is gone. This version of Kir is locked in and lethal, and the grip he has on the man’s shirt promises danger.

The man doesn’t seem too concerned, though. He raises both hands slowly, palms out, fingers spread.I’m not armed,it says.I mean no harm.He holds Kir’s gaze for a beat and something passes between them that I can’t decode. Strangely, it feels like they really do know each other. That’s odd. I thought the man was bullshitting, but I’m starting to second-guess myself.

Then Kir lets go. The man steps backward, out of Kir’s reach, and straightens his shirt where Kir bunched it. He doesn’t say a word. He turns to look at me again, and his eyes are a silent reminder of what he just told me. Then he turns and slips out through the gap in the curtain, leaving us alone.

I look up at Kir, but he isn’t returning my eye contact. He’s watching where the darkness swallowed up his maybe-friend, and he’s scowling deeply.

Then he turns to look at me. “What did he tell you?”

I’m inclined to fill him in on the whole strange, unsettling conversation, but for some reason, I hesitate. It was sort of implied that the stranger didn’t want to have that little chat in front of Kir, so I wonder if I’m supposed to keep it secret, too. If the man wanted me to leave Kir because I’m distracting him, am I allowed to tell Kir that’s what’s happening? Am I allowed to ask who the hell that was?

Another part of me is seeing the growing anguish in Kir’s face and wondering what the hell is happening in his head.

“I…”

“Let me guess.” Kir’s jaw works. “He told you to run from me before we both end up chopped into fucking bits.” I don’t say anything. He drags a hand down his face. “Meddling fuckingmudak.”

I touch his elbow. “Kir, who was that? Why’d he tell me that? Why does it seem like something’s about to happen if we don’t?—”

Kir’s hand closes around my upper arm and shuts me up. It’s not as hard as the stranger’s grip, but it’s not exactly the softest touch he’s ever done, either. “We’re leaving.”

“Kir—”

“Now.”

He drags me out of the alcove and into the corridor, moving fast. I have to half-jog to keep up in my heels, and the cable I tripped over earlier catches my toe again. Kir grabs me before I stumble and throws me over his shoulder. I scream in shock, but he doesn’t set me down until we’ve gone back down the staircase decorated with the stuffed birds, out of the exit door, and into the night.

The cold hurts when I suck in a breath. The street is wet from a rain that must have started while we were inside. Puddles catch the glow of passing headlights. Kir drops my wrist, shrugs off his coat, and drapes it over my bare shoulders without asking.

He still hasn’t looked at me.

“Kir,” I beg, “talk to me. Please.”

Kir starts walking. I run after him again, asking, “Kir, who was that? How did you know him? He said he was your friend! Kir!”

He refuses to answer any of my questions, so with an angry huff, I stop walking.

He makes it a few more strides before he realizes I’m not beside him anymore. The rain is picking up. It’s cold on my bare legs and it’s ruining my hair, but I don’t care about any of that.

“He said I’m going to get us both killed,” I call after him. My heels are planted on the wet sidewalk and I’m not moving. “That seems worthy of a discussion.”

Kir turns around. His shirt is soaked through and his hair is plastered to his forehead. There’s a wildness in his face that I’ve only seen in brief, terrifying flashes before. I brace myself, because I’m sure he’s about to yell at me, or grab me, or tell me to mind my own goddamn business.

Instead, he exhales. Rain trickles down the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, well, he’s right.”

I pull his coat tighter around my shoulders and close the distance between us, stopping when we’re a foot apart. “Then explain it to me,” I plead.

Kir looks at me for a long time. “My father gave me until the end of the month,” he says, “to kill you. And I decided I’m not going to do it. Because death has already claimed enough of the people I love.”

My breath catches at one particular part of that. Kir sees it and nods. Knowingly, sadly.

“Yeah, I know.Love.That’s the part that fucks everything up. If I just couldn’t do it, if it was just some moral hang-up, I’d figure a way out. But I can’t think straight anymore. All I can do is think about you, and that makes me sloppy. In my world, sloppy gets people buried.”