Page 17 of Ruined By Sin

"Kirianna isn't Kira." He touches the blood on his chest and wipes it clean, revealing his tattoo underneath it. The scar will mar the pattern, but he can have it fixed up later. What he can't fix is our friendship if he keeps pushing me so far.

"It's a nickname. People use nicknames."

Dr. Levin walks in, forcing Morin to bite back whatever rude thing he was about to say to me, and I stand up, crossing my arms over my chest as I see the suture kit coming out. But the good doctor doesn't ask questions. He goes about his business, readying his next steps as Morin keeps pushing my buttons.

"You're not thinking clearly about this," he says.

"I'm thinking more clearly about it than you are." I huff and shake my head. "You need to let me do my job and you do yours. Stay in your lane, Morin. I'm warning you." Even taking a tone with him makes me feel like a bad person. I'd have died if not for him and I should show him better. But he's wrong and I know it.

"I'm telling you she's not who she says she is..." Now his chest is pounding, blood coming faster, and Dr. Levin glowers at us both.

"Gentlemen?" he says, glowering, but I ignore him and keep talking to Morin.

"And I'm telling you to back off." I hold his gaze, which is now a hard glare. "You're hurt, Dracon's dead, and I need you focused on healing, not chasing theories about a woman I've already cleared."

It's like he's scared of her or something, like he's not being truthful with me about something. But he doesn't respond. He slides back onto the exam table and lets the blood drip out of his wound as he glares at me. I don’t care if he's happy with my call or not. I'm the boss and he does whatever the fuck I tell him.

"Take a few weeks," I tell him. "Let Levin stitch you up. Stay out of the field until you can move that arm without wincing. I'll handle the Mirov situation for now."

"A few weeks is a long time right now." I sense fear in his protest, but maybe it's just fear of missing out. He's bloodthirsty. If there are lives to be taken, I'm sure he wants in on that.

"Just do what you're told.”

I turn toward the doorway, almost bumping into Levin as I walk out. "Stitch him up. And make sure he actually rests."

"I'll do my best," Dr. Levin says, but the look he gives me suggests he knows exactly how futile that effort will be.

I stomp out of the room and through the waiting area where a new patient has arrived, seated in one of the hard plastic chairs. It's a younger woman who sits alone, and her dark hair reminds me immediately of Kira.

I don’t care what Morin says. I've vetted her myself, and I know she is who she says she is. But that doesn't stop the doubt from creeping in, or the reminders of how intense that moment was.We have really strong chemistry, and if that phone call hadn't happened, I'd have kissed her.

Hell, maybe more than kissed her.

I haven't been the sort of man who runs around with women having flings or taking advantage of the sex trade in this town, but I have my share of ladies who don't mind visiting my home. But it's been few and far between with the chaos our family was plunged into eighteen months ago.

The way Kira's lips were so full and pouty, and then she fucking licked them. God, it made my dick so hard, I thought I'd nut if she just barely touched me.

But I should be focused on removing the Mirov threat, not getting a woman into bed. And an ally's niece, nonetheless. Sergei has lost one daughter to the Kuzin empire already. No way he'd let his niece go. It's something I have to remove from my mind and keep a distance from or I'm gonna get myself in trouble, and when I do, it will break the dam open and all hell will break loose.

10

KIRA

The vodka is doing its job. Three shots in and my hand is steady enough to draw but loose enough that the lines come without my overthinking them. The drawing pad Timur promised showed up this afternoon with a set of pencils that are nicer than anything I've ever used. Professional grade, the kind you'd find in an art supply store, not the cheap ones I buy for myself at home.

Dryden stands at the door stoically watching me. He hasn't said a word in over an hour, which I appreciate. The study is quieter than my room, so when I asked if I could sit somewhere else for a while, he walked me down here. I've been working on the same drawing for forty minutes from this comfortable chaise lounge, sipping the expensive vodka.

The problem is that the drawing just isn't coming out right. I've been working on trying to reconstruct what happened that night when Timur's friend dragged me out of that building and shoved me in his trunk. I just can't remember the details. When I close my eyes, all I can see is the blood, which only encourages me todrink more. I know I shouldn't, but getting lost in this memory floods me with grief.

Underneath the crime scene sketch is the drawing I finished an hour ago. I drew a picture of Timur, done from memory the same way, but that one came easier. It's a good likeness but not my best work. Still, when I look at it, I see him, not a stranger.

That word makes my pencil pause on the pad, halted mid-line. He's not a stranger to me anymore. That feels odd or even surreal to me, that I've found a rapport with my captor so strong, I'd say I know him. It's a beguiling sensation to think of him that way, like he's someone I know now, and the way he almost kissed me the other day brings a tiny smile to my lips. So I down another shot of vodka to wash it away and try to focus again.

But after a few minutes, Timur walks in and I watch his eyes move from me to the pad to the pencils scattered on the chaise beside me. He doesn't comment on the vodka bottle on the side table, though it's noticeably lighter than it was when Sonya delivered it.

"You've been busy," he says, lifting both eyebrows. His expression is relaxed, almost pleasant.

"Well, you gave me the pencils... I do enjoy drawing." My eyes feel heavier than normal, though I don’t feel like I'm too drunk to have a coherent conversation, but I am feeling buzzed.