Page 55 of The Glass Empire
"I remember," I said. "My mother. I remember everything."
"That's a gift."
"That's a curse."
He smiled. It was a sad smile, tired at the edges, and it made him look older than he was. "Yes," he said. "It is."
He walked back to his desk but didn't sit. Instead, he leaned against the edge, facing me, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight caught the silver in his hair, the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the small scar above his left eyebrow that I'd never noticed before.
"Monika Mire," he said, like he was tasting it. Like the name was something sweet on his tongue.
"It's strange," I said. "Being called that."
"You'll get used to it."
"What if I don't want to?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The clock ticked. The fire crackled. The house settled around us like a living thing, breathing in the dark.
"Then tell me," he said. "And I'll let you go. Right now. No consequences. No debt. Just walk out that door and I'll never bother you again."
I stared at him. "You mean that."
"I always mean what I say."
"No, you don't. You lie. Nathan told me. He said you lie to protect yourself. To protect the people you love."
"Nathan talks too much." But he didn't deny it. He just looked at me with those grey eyes, steady and patient, waiting for me to make a choice.
I should have left. I should have stood up, walked out the door, gone back to my room and locked the door and pretended this conversation had never happened. I should have called Viktor, asked him to drive me back to my apartment, reclaimed the life I'd had before Aleksander Mire walked into my diner with a bullet in his side.
But I didn't.
I stayed.
"Why me?" I asked. "Of all the women you could have—why me?"
He pushed off from the desk and walked toward me. Slowly. Deliberately. The way he did everything. He stopped in front of my chair and looked down at me, and I felt small and seen and something else—something that might have been want.
"Because you're the first person in twenty years who looked at me and didn't see a monster," he said. "You saw a man who was bleeding. And you helped him. Without asking for anything in return."
"I asked for money."
"After. Not before. There's a difference."
He knelt. I watched him do it—this powerful man, this king of an empire built on blood—lowering himself to his knees in front of me. His hands came up to my face, cupping my cheeks, his thumbs tracing the curve of my cheekbones.
"Tell me to stop," he said. "And I will."
I didn't tell him to stop.
He kissed me.
It was not like Gabriel's kiss. Gabriel's kiss had been soft, hesitant, full of questions and trembling hands. Aleksander's kiss was certain. He kissed me like he'd been waiting to do it for years, like every moment of his life had been leading to this one, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
His mouth was warm. His tongue traced my lower lip, and I opened for him without thinking, and he made a sound—a low, rough groan—that I felt everywhere. His hands slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head, holding me in place while he kissed me deeper.
I clung to his shoulders. The fabric of his sweater was soft beneath my fingers, and beneath that, the solid warmth of him, the strength of him, the steady beat of his heart.
