Page 59 of Shatter Me

I try to stand, but Dmitri’s hand on my thigh stops me. “Stay.”

“I can answer my own door, you know.”

“I’m aware.” He rises in one fluid motion, straightening his already perfect shirt. “But you won’t.”

I sink back into the couch, watching him stride to my door with that confident grace that makes my stomach flip. He pulls out his wallet, handling the delivery exchange with practiced efficiency.

The scent of Szechuan spices fills my apartment as he carries the bags to my kitchen. I hear drawers opening and closing—he’s actually looking for utensils in my kitchen like this is the most natural thing in the world.

He returns with an armful of takeout containers and my mismatched collection of chopsticks. “Your kitchen organization leaves much to be desired.”

“Sorry that my utensil drawer doesn’t meet your exacting standards.” I watch him arrange the containers across my coffee table. “Though I notice you found everything just fine.”

“I’m very good at finding what I want.” He sets out the last container and hands me a pair of chopsticks, the fancy lacquered ones Sofia brought me from Japan. Of course he’d pick those.

The spread before us looks like enough to feed a small army. Steam rises from the soup dumplings, and the dan dan noodles glisten with chili oil. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud.

I try to focus on the movie, but my attention keeps drifting to Dmitri’s elegant hands wielding chopsticks with perfect precision. He makes eating takeout look like a fine dining experience.

The dan dan noodles are exactly as good as he promised. I steal glances at him between bites, fascinated by this softer version of the man I usually see commanding boardrooms. His jacket and tie are gone now, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, and there’s something incredibly intimate about watching him reach for another dumpling.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking away from the screen.

“I’ve never seen you eat like this before.” I twirl noodles around my chopsticks. “It’s... different.”

He picks up a piece of kung pao chicken. “Different good or different concerning?”

“Just different.” I pause. “Human.”

Now he does look at me, one eyebrow raised. “As opposed to?”

“The perfectly controlled automaton who terrorizes my board meetings.”

His lips quirk up. “I don’t terrorize. I direct.”

“Tell that to Mr. Patterson’s stress-induced acid reflux.”

Dmitri smirks at that, reaching for the Mapo tofu. “Perhaps he should develop a stronger constitution.”

I shake my head, unable to suppress my smile. The movie continues playing but I’m lost in watching Dmitri’s profile in the soft light from my TV. His usual sharp edges seem softer here in my space, surrounded by takeout containers and the gentle glow of evening.

He catches me staring again and, this time, holds my gaze. Something warm and possessive is in his cobalt blue eyes, making my breath catch.

“Eat,” he says softly. “Before it gets cold.”

I obey, but the food could be cardboard for all I taste. All I can focus on is his presence beside me, the heat of his thigh against mine, and the way his fingers brush mine when we reach for the same container.

23

DMITRI

Iwatch Tash move through the Egyptian wing of the museum on my tablet. The security feeds give me eight angles of her speaking with staff, checking displays, and making notes on her tablet.

My fingers trace the edge of my coffee cup. The memory of waking up with her curled against me in her pajamas strikes an unfamiliar chord. No sex. Just... presence.

"Sir, the Lebedev situation requires your attention." Akim hovers at my office door.

I wave him off, eyes fixed on Tash as she pauses to adjust the lighting on a particular exhibit. Such precise movements. Such care for every detail.

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