Page 32 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

There’s a look in her eyes, one that makes my fucking heart lurch with anticipation. But then she turns away and clears her throat.

The ride home is electric, every silence loaded, every glance fraught. It’s as if we’re both aware of something unspoken, a truth neither of us is willing to voice.

She squirms in her seat, adjusting her dress, brushing her hair behind her ear; telltale signs of her discomfort.

I catch her movements in my peripheral vision and force myself to look away, focusing on the dark road ahead. I try to fill my mind with other concerns, with the security protocols, the movements of rival organizations, the machinations of my own family.

Anything but her.

But it’s futile. She’s gotten under my skin, and I loathe the vulnerability that comes with it.

The car turns into the familiar drive of the penthouse; the gates closing behind us like the sealing of a vault, and I exhale deeply, grateful for the physical barriers that keep the world at bay.

Yet as we step out of the car, and our eyes meet in a fleeting moment, charged with an emotion I refuse to name.

The elevator hums as it ascends, the only sound in a space otherwise enveloped by a thick, pulsating silence. I find myself leaning against the wall, arms crossed over my chest.

It’s a defensive posture, one I’ve assumed countless times in tense situations, but this tension is different. It’s not laced with the imminent threat of violence or betrayal; it’s loaded with something else entirely, something neither of us is willing to articulate.

I can feel Gabriette’s eyes darting over to me, then looking away, as if she’s torn between wanting to stare and fearing what she’ll see—or feel—if she does.

The soft glow of the elevator light catches the curve of her cheek, the shimmer of her dress, casting her in a surreal, almost ethereal light.

I know I should look away, break this electric tension, but I don’t. Instead, I let my gaze lock onto her.

Finally, she looks up, her eyes meeting mine, and there it is.

Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide and filled with an emotion she can’t, or won’t, articulate. It’s a look of need, pure and simple, and it catches me off guard.

Why? Because it mirrors my own.

It’s a need that’s raw, almost feral, something that can’t be tamed by reason or rationality. For a moment, our eyes hold, and I see her pupils dilate, the flush rise on her cheeks. She squirms slightly, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words come.

I’m a man of control, a master of my own fate, schooled in the art of suppressing wants and desires for the greater good, for the hard realities of power and survival. Emotion is a vulnerability, a risk I’ve been trained to avoid.

But as Gabriette holds my gaze, as I sense her struggle to understand this charged space between us, I feel my own resolve waver.

I can sense her need not just to be understood but to be wanted—just as I’ve realized my own need to understand her, to... want her.

She seems to be a mirror reflecting back parts of me I’ve long buried or forgotten, aspects of my humanity that I’ve felt were best left hidden. And it terrifies me.

I walk towards her and her mouth opens slightly when she realizes what I’m doing. Then I draw my hand to her chin and run the pad of my thumb over her bottom lip.

She sucks in a breath. “Mikhail—”

“Shh,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s taking everything in me not to kiss you right now, Gabriette—”

Then the elevator dings, snapping us both out of whatever trance we’ve been lulled into. Sighing, I push away from her, all too aware of how close I was to crossing lines that can’t be uncrossed.

With every step, I’m reminded of the walls I’ve built, the emotional barricades erected to keep people, women, like Gabriette out. But as we step inside, those walls seem perilously fragile.

The air between us is charged, a living, breathing entity that neither of us can ignore. I feel it in my bones, this crackling tension, this unnamed thing that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

“Goodnight, Gabriette,” I say, my voice betraying none of the chaos swirling inside me.

“Goodnight, Mikhail,” she responds, her voice barely above a whisper.

She turns to walk away, I find myself watching her, tracing her silhouette until she disappears down the hall. And even after she’s gone, the weight of that moment, that need, lingers in the air, a haunting reminder of a truth I’m not yet ready to face.

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