"It was nothing." His voice didn't waver.
And she knew he was lying. She knew it in her bones, knew it from the same instinct that had always told her things about Alexei he never voiced. He poured her orange juice before she asked. He remembered every allergy and every exam date and every stupid story about a stray cat. His voice changed on the phone when she called, just a fraction, just enough.
"Liar," she whispered.
His eyes darkened.
"You're a liar, Alexei Almazov, and you can stand there in your perfect suit and tell me it was nothing and I won't believe you, because your hands were shaking when you kissed me. I felt them shake."
The silence that followed was the loudest she had ever heard.
His chest rose and fell. His hands were fists at his sides. And his eyes were doing the thing from last night again, where the want broke through the composure for just a second before he buried it.
He stepped back.
"I have a meeting at eight." His voice was mechanical. "Artem will be here at noon for you."
He turned away.
And something in Mia, something reckless and furious and absolutely done with closed doors, moved before she could think.
She grabbed his wrist.
He froze. His entire body went rigid, like she'd touched a live wire, and she could feel his pulse under her fingers. Fast. Too fast for a man who felt nothing.
"Don't walk away from me again." Her voice was raw. "You walked away last night, and I let you, but I'm not letting you twice."
He didn't turn around. His voice was stripped. "Let go."
"No."
"Mia—"
"No." She tightened her grip. Her heart was in her throat. Her whole body was vibrating, and she didn't care, because she was Mia Robertson and she'd flown two thousand miles and dropped out of college and unpacked her bags in a billionaire's penthouse and she wasn't going to let him retreat into another room and pretend they were guardian and ward when his pulse was a drumbeat under her thumb.
He turned.
She saw it happen. The exact moment the control fractured.
His eyes were wild. Furious. And underneath the fury was something so raw and so desperate that her chest caved.
"You want the truth?" His voice was barely a rasp. "Is that what you want?"
"Yes."
"The truth is I can't think straight when you're in this apartment."
The words hit her like a wave.
"The truth is I haven't thought straight since you called me from the car yesterday. The truth is I sent you to Whitmore because every day you were here I—" He stopped. His teeth clenched so hard she heard them meet. "Every day you were here, you got closer, and I let you, and I shouldn't have. And now you're back and you're standing in my kitchen with your hair down and your bare feet and that dress, and I—"
His hand came up. His fingers grazed her cheek, and the touch was so gentle it made her want to cry, because everything else about him was clenched and rigid and barely held together but his fingertips on her skin were feather-light.
"You should be at Whitmore," he murmured. "You should be in a lecture hall. You should be meeting someone your own age who deserves you."
"I don't want someone my age." Her voice cracked. "I want you."
His thumb traced her lower lip. Slow. Deliberate. And his eyes tracked the path of it like he was memorizing something he'd already decided to give up.
