Page 102 of Porcelain Lies

But the impulse unsettles me. It’s possessiveness taken too far, even for me. So, I step back from the screen, tearing myself away.

I shouldn’t have come here, to these cameras. I shouldn’t have given in to the need to watch her.

Because now, I know she dreams of me. I know that, on some level, she wants me, too. And that knowledge is a drug, a dangerous pull that I can’t ignore.

Run.

I need to run off this energy that doesn’t belong in me.

I walked away from my own wedding today. Turned a dozen dangerous men against me. And yet, what bothers me most is the sound of my name on her lips.

Already in my sweats and running shoes, I leave the room and head out of the building. I slide into an easy lope that takes me smoothly through the grounds of the estate. Away from the house. Away from her.

I cover the ground in long, earth-eating strides, focusing on pouring my frustration into each step.

It doesn’t work.

I push harder, legs burning as I sprint up the hill behind the mansion. The familiar path should clear my head, should exhaust me enough to sleep. But her voice echoes in my mind.

Aleksei.

That little hitch at the end as she came undone dreaming of me.

Blyad.

Even the night air feels charged, electric with possibility. With need.

My feet carry me down the slope, each impact jarring through my bones. The manor’s lights glow ahead, beckoning. The Right Wing — my domain — lies dark and still.

But the Left Wing…

I fix my eyes on a row of windows along one side of the sprawling building. Her rooms.

My stride falters. I slow, breath harsh in my lungs as I stare up at those windows. Is she sleeping? Dreaming again? Or…

The memory of her writhing body floods back — her soft moans, her fingers clutching. Heat courses through me, and I clench my fists.

This isn’t like me. I don’t fixate. Don’t obsess. Yet here I am, drawn to her. Irresistibly.

My feet carry me closer to the Left Wing. Each step feels inevitable, as if I’m being pulled by an invisible thread. The security cameras track my movement — I feel their electronic eyes on me, recording this moment of weakness.

The grass is damp beneath my shoes as I cross the lawn. I should turn back to my wing, to my cold bed and colder thoughts. But her window calls to me, and I’m powerless to resist. I head back to the building.

Just to check on her.

Yeah, right.

That’s what you’re doing, mudak.

I stop outside her door. I don’t need to go further. I can stay right here, and this never has to become more than a fleeting moment of weakness.

Until her scream cuts through the night, raw and primal. I freeze, my hand hovering over the handle.

Another cry follows — “Mom! Dad!” — and something inside me splinters.

The sound pierces my defenses, strips away years of careful control. My fingers curl around the handle before I can stop myself.

Turn back, pizda.

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