Page 23 of The Last Dance

I blinked, expecting a headache, or at least the sour rush of regret. Instead, I got a low, steady heat from a working fireplace—actual flames, not a Netflix loop—the aftertaste of vodka in my mouth, and a physical sense memory of being split in half by a man whose idea of pillow talk was “say it.”

I had. I did. Now I was here.

For a full minute I lay motionless. There was a painting over the fireplace, the kind that came with a provenance and a security detail. The walls were a rich, moody blue, so dark it felt like night even in the morning. Heavy drapes covered one window, and the French doors at the end of the room let in a pane of icy white daylight.

The furniture was old—old as in “carved for a tsar, probably with the blood of peasants in the finish.” There were two armchairs by the fire, both upholstered in leather the color of black tea, and in one of them sat Vadim.

He looked exactly as he had the night before, except now he was in a full suit, slate gray and nearly black, with a white shirt open at the collar and no tie. The shoulder holster was visible for effect, not necessity, and the gun inside was not a prop.

His hair—how did he even manage this?—was slicked and perfect, not a trace of bedhead. He held a tablet in his left hand, thumb scrolling, and the only sign of animation was a muscle ticking in his jaw as he read.

The moment my eyes opened, he clocked me. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice, which was the same as playing dead in front of a wolf.

I was not very good at it.

He set the tablet down on the table next to him. “You’re awake.” Statement, not question.

I weighed the odds: respond, or fake sleep and hope he respected tradition. I went with respond. “What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty.”

I took inventory of my body. No major injuries, just the well-earned bruises of overachievement. My jaw ached from where he’d kissed me too hard, or maybe it was the bite on my shoulder. My ass—no, that was definitely a bruise.

He didn’t rise from the chair. He just watched, in the way men who own things watch to see if the thing is still worth owning. When I sat up, the sheet dropped to my waist and made a little static sound against my skin.

No point in being shy. He’d already seen everything, both in the classical sense and the post-apocalyptic.

“Coffee?” I said, more hope than expectation.

He stood. The motion had the same effect as watching a drawbridge go up: sudden, absolute, no question who had the right of way. He crossed to the bed and, without warning, put a hand to the back of my neck and hauled me upright.

Not rough. Just final.

He kissed me, open-mouthed and possessive, like a man checking the temperature of a steak before deciding if it was ready to eat. I made a noise, involuntary, and for a second I was sure I’d pass out again from the shock of it. Then he let me go and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“How do you feel?” he asked, which was an improvement over last night, when he’d skipped straight to “mine.”

I considered my answer. “Fine,” I said.

He looked at me with a kind of clinical patience, like he was waiting for the real answer to crawl out of my mouth and admit what it had done.

I tried again. “I’ve been worse.”

He seemed to find this satisfactory, because the corners of his mouth turned up in the approximation of a smile. He reached for my wrist and ran his thumb over the inside, checking the pulse, maybe, or just staking a claim. “You can stay in bed, if you want. I have business to attend.”

“What if I want to get up?”

He cocked his head, as if this was not a scenario he’d considered. “There’s a bathroom. Clothes are waiting. When you’re done, come to breakfast.”

Breakfast. The word hit me like a rock to the temple. I couldn’t remember the last time someone used it as an offer and not a code for “I’m leaving in five minutes, hope you have a good life.”

I didn’t trust it.

He stood again, this time slower, and left the room with the heavy, dignified stride of a man who’d never once tripped over his own feet. The door closed with a whisper.

I sat for a minute, letting the room re-solidify around me. There were no cameras. I checked, just in case. There was, however, a side table with a glass of water, a pack of Tylenol, and a note in crisp handwriting that read: “Take two. Lin.”

Lin.