Page 31 of Empire
He catches my wrist, more reflex than refusal. “No.”
“Then who?”
“Ruslan—”
“Who?”
He lets out a sharp breath through his nose and closes his eyes for a beat, head tipping back into the tile. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Bullshit.”
“It doesn’t mattertonight.”
I stare at him, then I understand something that makes my chest go tight in a whole new way. He isn’t refusing because it’s unimportant. He’s refusing because he didn’t come here to talk about the pain someone else puts on him. He came here becausewhatever happened left him with one place he still thinks he can go.
Me.
That should feel like victory. It feels like terror.
I slide my hand from his wrist to his jaw and make him look at me properly. “You walk into my apartment after midnight, tell me your father knows, and expect me not to ask?”
His mouth flattens. “I expect you to know I came anyway.”
Steam beads on his lashes. Water slides down the line of his neck, over his chest, along the hard plane of his stomach. He’s beautiful, yes, but that’s never the worst part. The worst part is the look on his face right now. Not pleading or fragile. Just stripped. A man who’s been cornered by legacy and still chooses to step into the jaws of something else because at least here he understands the risk.
Why the fuck would he do that if he wasn’t already half gone for me, too?
I stare at him, every ugly, defensive answer dying before it reaches my mouth. Because that’s the thing about him, really. He can cut cleaner than almost anyone I’ve ever known, but when he decides to tell the truth, he does it in a way that leaves no room to hide behind your own bullshit.
“You’re fucking reckless.”
He meets my stare without blinking. “Only with you.”
Christ.
I kiss him again because if I don’t, I’m going to say something too honest too fast. His fingers knot in my wet hair. The kiss turns slower almost immediately, less shock, more recognition.
His mouth opens under mine with that same furious softness only I get, and I taste whatever remains of his restraint going under. When I break away, I press my brow to his and stay there.
“You should’ve stayed away,” I murmur.
“I know.”
“You should hate me for not making it easier.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “I do, a little.”
That almost gets a laugh out of me. “I try not to. I try not to think about you the way I do. I try not to want you every time I leave a room. I try not to—” My jaw tightens. “I try not to make this bigger than I can survive.”
His eyes close for one second, and when they open again, there’s so much in them I have to look away first or drown in it.
“Ruslan.”
There are a hundred ways he could say my name. Insult. Warning. Prayer. Need.
This is the worst one. This one sounds like love before either of us has the courage to name it when we’re vulnerable.
I drag him into me and hold him there, both arms wrapped around his back, his chest against mine, my face buried briefly at his neck. He holds me back just as hard.
