—Kira—
Icame home humming, moving through the house like I was floating, like I had slipped into a version of reality where everything gleamed just a little brighter. I wasn’t the same girl who had left that morning.
I slipped past the guards without looking at them, let the butler drone something about dinner, nodded at a maid who scurried to take my coat. None of it touched me. My mind was still at Maksym’s apartment. On his mouth. His voice. His hands on my skin.
I only snapped out of it when I opened my bedroom door and was met with a sight that froze me in place. Felix was lying across my bed like it was his.
Not sitting. Lying. Shoes off, jacket tossed over my chair like he belonged there, one arm stretched behind his head as if my room were an extension of his own. For a split second my brain refused to accept the image, and then it did, all at once, with a cold drop in my stomach that erased the last of my good mood.
Fuck.In all the madness of today I had completely forgotten about myproblem, which was now busy staining my sheets. The same problem that had sent me running to Maksym in the first place.
He stretched like a cat in heat, eyes never leaving mine.“There she is. My little runawayfiancée. I was starting to miss you.”
That word didn’t belong to me, and the moment he said it, my face shut down.He’d have to be out of his mind to think I’d ever be his fiancée. The delusion was almost impressive.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice steady only because I forced it to be.
He chuckled, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Is that how you greet your future husband?” His gaze flicked to my face, then lower, lingering. “You always come back from school in such a good mood? Must be a very… stimulating place. I’m impressed. Such a good student.”
My fingers curled around the strap of my bag. “What are you doing in my room, Felix?” I repeated, slower this time, clearer.
He glanced around as if only now noticing the space, taking his time with it. “Just wanted to see where my fiancée lays that sweet little head at night,” he said. “This mattress isn’t bad. Not what I’d pick, but I guess we can break it in properly. Unless you’ve already been doing that?” He shot me a look, then smiled. “This room suits you. Innocent on the surface, but I bet it hides secrets.”
He got up and wandered toward my vanity, fingering my perfume bottles. “Of course,” he said casually, picking one up and sniffing it, “after we get married, we’ll move to Moscow.”
He turned slightly, just enough for me to see his smirk. “I’ll be honest—this place depresses me. You deserve something nicer. I’m sure you’ll learn to like the new place… or at least pretend you do.”
“You won’t be here long anyway,” he added lazily. “With everything going on… this city isn’t built to last.”
There was something in his voice—something smooth and final, like a velvet rope tightening. A warning disguised as a promise. Or maybe it wasn’t disguised at all.
Every instinct in me screamed to step back, to put more space between us, though there was already plenty. I stayed where I was, rooted to the threshold, my heart beginning to beat too fast, too loud. He didn’t seem to notice—or worse, he did, and enjoyed it.
“Please leave,” I said. “I need to get ready for dinner.”
He glanced back at me, smirked. “You’re shy. That’s cute. But you don’t have to be. Soon I’ll see everything anyway.”
My chest tightened. “Felix,” I said, sharper now. “I insist. Leave.”
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t. He stayed where he was, considering me, the silence stretching in a way that made my skin prickle. Then he stood, unhurried, adjusting his shirt as he walked past me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, sweet and overpowering.
“Of course,” he said, lips curling like he was in on a joke I wasn’t part of. He reached for the doorknob, grabbing his jacket from the chair on his way, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to get you too worked up before dinner.”
I waited until he was gone, until his footsteps faded down the hall, before I closed the door and turned the lock. The clickechoed in the quiet room. I leaned back against the wood, my breath finally breaking free in short, uneven pulls, my heart pounding so hard it made me dizzy.
“Crazy fucking motherfucker,” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.
I needed to wash him off me. Off the sheets. Off the air.
I peeled off my clothes, not bothering to toss them anywhere useful, and headed for the shower. Let the water scald. Let it burn the stench of him off my skin. I stood under the stream until my fingers wrinkled and my jaw unclenched.
When I came out, I wrapped myself in the thickest robe I had, still shivering.
There was no way in hell I was putting on a dress tonight.
If he wanted to look at me, then let him look at grief incarnate. Let him feast his eyes on a funeral procession in motion.
I chose black pants and a black turtleneck. I gave him no skin, no softness, no invitation.
