The question hangs between us, loaded with too many possible answers.Because I can’t stop thinking about you.Because you left without saying goodbye. Because you were the only person who ever saw me as something more than Yuri Orlov’s son. Because touching you feels like touching a live wire, and I’ve been numb for too long.
Instead of answering, I kiss him again, slower but no less intense. He responds immediately, mouth opening under mine, tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my blood burn. I press him harder against the wall, one thigh sliding between his legs, feeling the evidence of his desire against my hip.
When we break apart again, we’re both trembling. I grip his jaw, forcing him to maintain eye contact as I make my claim.
“You walk around like you don’t belong to anyone,” I say, my voice low and rough. “You belong to me, Vincent. You always did.” My thumb traces his lower lip, still wet from our kiss. “See you at the family dinner, big brother.”
Without another word, I turn and walk away, disappearing into the darkness with the taste of him still on my lips.
12
Vincent
I CLENCH THE STEERING wheel of my beat-up car so hard my knuckles turn white. I stare at the wrought iron gates of the Orlov estate like they’re the entrance to hell. Being back here makes my stomach churn with every inch the car crawls up the long, winding driveway. The trees lining the path seem to bend inward, watching me, judging me, reminding me that I don’t belong here anymore. I never did.
The security booth at the entrance is new—a sleek, modern addition to the old-world grandeur of the estate. The guard inside looks me over with suspicion, his suit too well-tailored for someone whose job is to stand at a gate all day.
“Name?” he asks, though I can tell by the way his eyes linger on my face that he already knows. They’ve been expecting me.
“Vincent Bell.”
He nodsonce, checking something on a tablet before pressing a button. The massive gates swing open with a mechanical hum that sounds like the jaws of a trap closing behind me. I follow the familiar curves of the driveway, each bend in the road bringing back memories I’ve spent years trying to bury.
When I park in the circular drive, another security guard—this one built like a refrigerator with arms—approaches my car. I step out, trying to project a confidence I don’t feel.
“Mr. Bell,” he says. Not a question. “Follow me.”
I trail after him up the grand stone steps to the main entrance, where two more guards stand at attention. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. This is excessive even for Yuri. The message is clear: I’m not trusted. I’m a threat. I’m being watched.
“Arms out, please,” says the refrigerator, and before I can object, he’s patting me down, checking for weapons, I suppose. Or maybe just to humiliate me.
My jaw clenches as his hands move over my body, but I say nothing. This is the price of admission. The cost of seeing my mother again.
“Clear,” he announces finally, stepping back. The double doors swing open, revealing the marble-floored foyer I remember from another life. Crystal chandeliers cast prisms of light across walls adorned with paintings worth more than everything I own.
And there she is—my mother, standing in the center of the grand entryway, hands clasped together. She looks both exactly the same and completely different. The same graceful posture, the same honey-gold hair that I inherited, but there are new lines around her eyes, a certain tightness to her smile that wasn’t there before.
“Vincent,” she breathes, and the sound of my name in hervoice knocks something loose inside my chest.
I cross the distance between us in three long strides, and then her arms are around me. She smells the same—jasmine and vanilla—and for a moment, I’m twelve years old again.
“Look at you,” she says, pulling back to study my face, her hands cool against my cheeks. “You’re so handsome. So grown-up.”
I try to smile, but it feels stiff on my face. “Hi, Mom.”
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and guilt twists in my gut. I did this to her. I’ve missed five years of her life.
But I had no choice. She had, though, and she decided to stand with her husband rather than her son.
She links her arm through mine, guiding me deeper into the house. “Everyone’s waiting in the dining room. Dinner’s almost ready.”
My feet grow heavier with each step, dread pooling in my stomach like lead. The dining room. Where I’ll have to face Yuri again after all this time.
We pass through the East Wing, past rooms filled with antiques and artwork that always made me feel like I was living in a museum. The Orlovs have money—old money, new money, blood money. Enough that this house feels more like a fortress than a home.
My mother’s grip on my arm tightens as we approach the dining room doors. “It’s going to be fine,” she whispers, though I’m not sure if she’s reassuring me or herself.
The doors swing open, and I step into a room that haunts my nightmares. The long mahogany table gleams under the light of a chandelier dripping with crystals. China plates and silver flatware are arranged with precision on a white tablecloth. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over manicured gardensnow shrouded in evening shadow.
