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“You’re not fine,” he says, his gaze hopping from bruise to bruise. “In fact, you look like shit.”
That gets a smile out of me. I laugh. “Such a gentleman.”
The corner of his lip curls. “There’s a time for gentleness, and a time for truth.”
His hand pauses near my cheek, a silent question. I see something in him, a softness I've never noticed before, hidden beneath layers of strength and resilience. It's like catching a glimpse of something forbidden, and it emboldens me.
My fingers move, almost on their own, brushing against his. The spark of our touch sends a jolt through me. Words are on the tip of my tongue, but fear and uncertainty silences them. He inhales deeply, a hint of vulnerability before he draws back.
"You should get some rest, Ana." His retreat feels like a cold slap, and my heart races, anxiety and desire a twisted knot inside me.
My fingers grasp at his, holding on desperately.
His eyes, intense and unreadable, fixate on mine. "I want to say thank you," I can barely get the words out. "For everything. For being there."
He doesn't reply, but he doesn't pull away, either. I lean in, brushing a soft kiss on his cheek.
We share a heavy, loaded silence before I release his hand and stand up. I head back to the bedroom, feeling him in everystep, in every breath, the taste of what could be and the danger of wanting it, consuming me.
As I lay down, surrounded by traces of him, a mix of comfort and confusion envelopes me. The echo of our almost moment haunts my thoughts, igniting a fire I don't know how to control.
Chapter 7
Samuil
The gym door groans open, revealing Anastasia in mid-workout. She's a force, power and grace combined. Sweat glistens on her toned arms, her tank top clinging to her like a second skin, revealing the curves of muscle beneath. Her hair is pulled back, strands sticking to her neck, as she delivers punch after punch to the bag.
It's a beautiful sight, and damn, I wish I could ignore it.
I swallow hard and try to shove down the tightening in my chest. I can't afford to get distracted. Especially not by her. There's an itch in the back of my mind, one that's got nothing to do with the way Ana's shorts hug her thighs or the rhythmic movement of her body.
The lead on Viktor's attack has been gnawing at me. That slippery bastard, Van, was seen yapping with Viktor just before everything went south. It could be nothing. Or it could be the breakthrough we need. Either way, I need to pin it down, find out what the hell is going on.
But right now, Ana commands the room even if she doesn’t realize it. Every punch she throws, every move she makes, resonates with a kind of raw energy. It's a pull I'm fighting to resist.
The rhythmic thudding of Ana's fists against the punching bag fills my ears. My mind, however, refuses to settle on the present moment. It keeps trailing back to Van and the little tidbit I picked up. Why the hell hadn't Viktor mentioned anything about meeting with that weasel?
The head trauma could be messing with his memory. It's a reasonable assumption. I need to drop by the hospital later and press him for more details. He's got to remember something about the meeting with Van.
Finding Van has become a challenge on its own. The man's evasive, slipping in and out of shadows, showing his face only when he wants to. No known address, no pattern to his movements. It's infuriating. Not being able to find someone when I need them is a problem.
I've been trying to pin down a meet with him since the lead came up, but he's proving difficult. I have my ways, of course, but Van's been in this game a long time. He knows the ins and outs.
My fingers clench instinctively. He might be a ghost, but every ghost has its haunts. I'll find his. The thought firms my resolve. Right now, though, Ana's training demands attention.
She whistles, sharp and sudden, breaking my reverie. It's one of those playful, attention-grabbing wolf whistles, and I find my gaze snapping to hers almost instantly. Ana's grinning, her cheeks flushed from her workout, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“What’s frying your brain? I can practically smell you thinking,” she teases, the corners of her lips turned up in amusement.
Her eyes, sharp and fierce, meet mine, and for a split second, the world narrows to just the two of us. I rip my gaze away, trying to focus on the racks of weights and equipment.
I grumble, irritated at having been so lost in thought that I hadn't noticed her attempt to catch my attention earlier. “Just Bratva business. Nothing you need to worry about.”
She rolls her eyes at my evasiveness, her playful mood undeterred. Bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, she tilts her head, indicating the open space of the gym's center. “You up for a spar? My next opponent is built like you. Think you can give me a taste of what to expect?”
I study her for a moment, taking in the challenge of her stance. Even though my mind's occupied with the Van situation, a good spar might help clear my head, center me.
“Alright," I relent, cracking my knuckles. "But don’t expect me to go easy on you."
