Page 38 of Crystal Wrath
The door creaks behind me, and I know without looking that it's him. The awareness prickles across my skin, that electric sensation I get whenever Renat enters a room. My muscles tense despite my attempts to appear relaxed.
“So, I'm not allowed to leave, but you can barge in whenever you want?” The words come out sharp, edged with frustration that's been building for days.
He steps inside without invitation, closing the door behind him with that quiet confidence that seems to be his default setting. “You're not a prisoner.”
The book snaps shut in my hands before I can stop myself. The sound echoes through the quiet room like a gunshot. “Then what would you call it? I can't leave. I can't call anyone. I have no phone, no car, and the guards follow me everywhere like I'm a flight risk. I'm locked in this mansion like some...” I struggle for the right words, heat rising in my cheeks. “Like some kept woman.”
He doesn't flinch at the accusation, though something stirs in his eyes. Pain or maybe recognition. “You're protected. There's a difference.”
I rise from the chair, the book falling to the floor. Every nerve in my body hums with pent-up frustration, with days of silence and unanswered questions and the suffocating strain of his carefuldistance. “Protected from what? From the truth? From my life? Or is it just easier to keep me here so I don't stumble into more of your secrets?”
The air between us crackles with tension that's been building since that first night. His jaw tightens, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. I can see cracks forming in his controlled facade.
“You almost died, Elena.” His voice rises, his control slipping. “You were face down in the street because Bennato rigged your car to explode. That wasn't a warning shot. That was an execution order.”
The memory of that night floods back. The heat, the ringing in my ears, the taste of blood in my mouth. But underneath the fear is anger, bright and clean. “I know exactly what it was. But I didn't ask you to rescue me. And I sure as hell didn't ask you to lock me in your ivory tower like I'm some glass doll you're afraid might break.”
I move toward him as I speak, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. Each footfall on the Persian rug brings me closer to the heat radiating from his body and the dangerous energy that surrounds him like a live wire.
“I'm afraid you'll get yourself killed!” The words explode from him, raw and unguarded. The admission hangs there, more honest than anything he's given me in four days.
But I don't retreat. If anything, his confession draws me closer until we're standing toe-to-toe, and I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes and the way his pupils dilate as he looks down at me.
“You can't protect me from everything.” My voice drops, becoming softer but no less determined. “You can't fix this with secrets and walls.”
Something breaks in his expression. The careful mask he wears slips completely, and for the first time since I've known him, Renat Rostov looks utterly human. Vulnerable. Almost lost.
“You think this is easy for me?” His hand rises, fingertips brushing along my jaw with devastating gentleness. His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. “Do you have any idea what it means to care about someone in my world?”
The question is loaded with implications I'm not ready to examine. But before I can form a response or think of all the reasons this is dangerous, complicated, and wrong, he lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss is everything I need. His lips are firm but gentle, asking rather than demanding. Heat spreads through my body like wildfire, erasing every rational thought in my head. My hands move without conscious direction, fisting in the expensive fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screams warnings I choose to ignore.
He responds to my urgency, his arms coming around me, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the desk behind us. Papers scatter to the floor, and I hear the soft thud of books hitting the Persian rug, but none of it matters. Nothing exists except the warmth of his mouth on mine and the way his hands settle on my waist.
My legs wrap around him instinctively, drawing him closer, and he groans against my lips, a sound so raw and desperate thatit sends shivers down my spine. The kiss deepens, becoming hungrier and more demanding. Days of tension and unspoken desire converge at this moment, transforming the careful distance we've maintained into a consuming need.
His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the curve of my breasts through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt. The contact sends electricity racing through my veins, and I arch into his touch, wanting more despite every logical reason to stop this before it goes too far.
“Elena,” he murmurs against my mouth, my name a prayer on his lips. The Russian accent makes it sound exotic and dangerous, like something forbidden that I shouldn't want but desperately do.
I thread my fingers through his dark hair, marveling at its softness, and at the way he leans into my touch like he's starved for contact. The small scar along his jawline is rough beneath my fingertip as I trace it, and he closes his eyes at the gentle exploration.
“What happened here?” I whisper, curiosity overriding the haze of desire for a moment.
“Childhood accident,” he replies but doesn't elaborate. Instead, he presses his forehead to mine, breathing hard, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Elena, we should stop.”
The words are reasonable, logical, and everything I should want to hear. But they feel like cold water on a fire that's been building for days, and I find myself shaking my head.
“Why?” I challenge, my voice breathy but determined. “Because it's complicated? Because it's dangerous? Everything about this situation is already both of those things.”
His grip on my waist tightens, fingers pressing into my skin through the cotton fabric. “Because I don't want to hurt you.”
“You won't,” I tell him, though I'm not sure if I believe it. What I do know is that sitting here in his arms, feeling the solid warmth of his body against mine is the first time I've felt truly safe since this nightmare began. Not protected by guards and walls and security systems, but genuinely safe in the way that only comes from human connection.
“You don't know what you're offering,” he continues, but his resolve is wavering. I can see it in the way his eyes darken, and in the barely controlled tension in his muscles.
“Then show me,” I breathe against his lips. “Stop hiding behind your secrets and show me who you really are.”
