Page 103 of Sexting His Assistant

For a while, neither of us move. Then I pull out carefully and lie beside her

She turns toward me immediately. “You hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“No. You’re banned from saying that.”

“I’m alive.”

“That is a terrible standard.”

“It’s worked so far.”

She stares at me, naked and flushed and still annoyed, and I feel something in my chest shift in a way I don’t want to examine yet.

Her hand lifts to my face, then stops halfway.

I catch it and press her palm against my cheek. She goes quiet.

I turn my head and kiss the inside of her wrist.

Her breathing changes.

For once, she doesn’t run.

She stays beside me, warm and silent, her bed a mess around us, her body close enough that I can feel every breath she takes.

Outside this room, everything is still waiting.

Alina. Misha. The attack. The resignation. The fact that I’ve crossed every line I spent years drawing.

But for the first time in weeks, Nina isn’t leaving.

And I’m selfish enough to keep her there.

13

NINA

I expect him to leave.

That’s what men like Luka do, isn’t it? They arrive like storms, break the weather, leave the room unrecognizable, and then put their coats back on like nothing important happened.

So after, when the apartment is quiet and my sheets are twisted around our legs and his breathing has settled beside me, I wait for it.

The shift. The retreat. The return of Mr. Kazan.

He will sit up. He will check his phone. He will say something controlled and unbearable, something like, this cannot happen again, or you should sleep, or we will discuss this tomorrow, and then he will leave my apartment looking perfectly composed while I lie here naked, furious, and ruined.

Instead, Luka stays.

He’s on his back beside me, one arm folded carefully over his stomach, the injured shoulder angled away from the mattress. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s not sleeping. Luka Kazan probably sleeps like a weapons system, one part of his brain always awake, cataloguing threats, exits, weaknesses, me.

Especially me, apparently.

I turn my head on the pillow and look at him.

There’s a faint sheen of sweat along his throat. His hair’s messier than I’ve ever seen it. The mark from my slap has faded into a faint redness on his cheek. The bandage around his shoulder has pulled slightly loose at the edge.