Page 62 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

“Mikhail, we can’t just leave it like this,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the door frame.

He glances at me, his eyes unreadable. “What would you have me say, Gabriette?”

“That you trust me, that you don’t think I’m lying to you,” I say, the words coming out more like a plea than a demand.

He pulls a drawer open and takes out a pair of black boxer shorts. “And would me saying it make it true? Words are just that—words. They mean nothing without action to back them up.”

I feel my temper rising, hot and swift. “So, my actions led you to believe I was cheating? Is that it?”

He finally looks at me, his eyes locking onto mine, and for a moment, I see the man I’m starting to fall in love with—the man who is so complex, so guarded, but also so incredibly human.

“No. But you thought the same, didn’t you? When I was out with Liadan? Doubt is a two-way street, Gabriette.”

The air between us grows colder, as if his words have brought in a draft. “Liadan is your best friend. It’s different.”

“Is it?” he counters, closing the drawer and walking past me. “Or is it just easier to believe in my guilt than in your own innocence?”

I want to say something, anything, that will bridge this chasm that’s opened up between us, but the words die on my lips.

Instead, I watch him slide into bed, his back to me as he turns off the bedside lamp. The darkness that fills the room seems to mirror the shadow that’s fallen over us.

With a heavy heart, I get ready for bed, my own actions a ritualistic echo of his. As I slide between the cool sheets, I turn my back to him, mirroring his posture.

But as I close my eyes, trying to escape into sleep, I realize that the true mirroring between us is far deeper, far more troubling. It’s the mirror of doubt, reflecting both our faces, muddied by the past, distorted by fear.

And as I drift off into a restless sleep, I can’t help but wonder if we’ll ever find a way to break that mirror, to shatter the doubts that imprison us. Or if we’ll remain trapped, each a reflection of the other’s deepest fears.

MIKHAIL

Morning light seeps through the gaps in the heavy curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. I become aware of the warm body pressed against mine, and as my eyes open, I’m hit with a wave of regret so intense it’s almost nauseating.

Last night’s argument replays in my mind—the words said, the suspicions voiced, the trust that seemed to crumble in an instant.

Gabriette is still asleep, her back snug against my chest. I look down at her, at the way her hair spills over the pillow like a waterfall of black ink, and my heart clenches.

Last night, I let old wounds dictate my actions, let my past infiltrate the present in the most destructive way possible. I let doubt wedge itself between us, and the weight of that mistake feels like a physical burden.

My arm is draped over her waist, fingers just touching the silk of her nightgown, and I’m struck by the stark contrast between the softness of the moment and the hardness of last night’s conversation. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the pale light, and as they do, my thoughts also come into sharper focus.

I feel like an idiot. A guilty, regretful idiot.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, I press my lips to her shoulder, each kiss an unspoken apology, the warmth of her skin reminding me of everything I nearly jeopardized.

I want to say so much, to find the words to bridge the distance I created, but at this moment, actions are all I have. And so I kiss her again, letting my lips linger on her skin as if I can somehow transfer my regret, my need for her forgiveness, through this simple touch.

As I lay there, holding her, she stirs, her body tensing as she awakens. She turns her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine, and I see it—the residual hurt, the uncertainty. And it guts me.

“Mikhail?” Her voice is tinged with sleep, but I hear the uncertainty in it, and it gnaws at me.

“I’m here,” I whisper, tightening my arm around her as if I could pull her into the very fabric of my being.

She sighs and looks back at me. “About last night—”

“I’m sorry,” I cut her off, unable to let her finish, unable to let her take on any burden of blame. “I was a fucking idiot who shouldn’t have gotten into the bourbon while angry. I let my insecurities get the better of me, and I took it out on you. There’s no excuse.”

She studies me for a moment, her eyes unreadable. The tension in the room is a palpable entity, hovering over us, waiting for an invitation to dissolve or to grow thicker.

“Do you trust me?” she asks, echoing her question from the night before.

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