Page 28 of Beautiful Monster

When I emerge, she's already in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a simple blouse, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She doesn't look up when I enter but continues spreading butter on her toast with controlled movements.

"Good morning," I offer, the words falling flat between us.

She doesn't respond, doesn't acknowledge my presence at all. She finishes her toast, rinses her plate in the sink, and walks past me as if I'm invisible. Her perfume lingers in the air. I inhale deeply, hating myself for craving even this slight trace of her.

Days pass this way. She becomes a ghost in our home, present but unreachable. When I enter a room, she leaves it. When I speak, she doesn't listen. When I reach for the salt at dinner, she withdraws her hand as if my touch might burn.

It's what I wanted. It's exactly what I fucking wanted.

And it's killing me.

I find myself watching her when she doesn't notice. The way she curls in the window seat with a book, the afternoon light turning her auburn hair to fire. How she speaks softly to Yuri, my most hardened enforcer, making him blush like a schoolboy as she asks about his mother's health. The graceful line of her neck as she tilts her head to study one of the paintings in the hallway.

My wife. Mine. Yet never more unreachable.

Tonight, I come home earlier than usual. The house is quiet, but a light burns in the library. I loosen my tie as I approach, preparing for another silent encounter, another exercise in restraint.

I find her asleep on the leather couch, a book open on her chest, rising and falling with each breath. Her face, in repose, is younger, softer, unmarked by the coldness I've taught her to wear in my presence. A strand of auburn hair has escaped her ponytail, curling against her cheek.

Without thinking, I reach down to brush it away.

Her eyes snap open, startlingly blue and instantly alert. For a fraction of a second, before memory returns, I see warmth there—then nothing. The shutters come down, and she sits up abruptly, the book tumbling to the floor.

"Don't," she says, the first word she's spoken to me in days. It hangs between us, heavy with meaning.

"Kira—"

"No." She stands, putting the couch between us. "You made yourself clear. I'm a liability. A business transaction. I understand my place now."

"That's not—" I begin but stop. What can I say? That I lied? That the truth is worse—that I'm terrified of how much I want her, need her, could love her if I allowed myself?

"Not what?" Her voice is steady, but I see I see the pain in her eyes. "Not what you meant? Then what did you mean, Mikhail?"

My name in her mouth still does things to me, still makes heat pool low in my belly despite everything. I take a step toward her, and she takes one back.

"I meant that I can't afford distractions," I say finally. "The Novikovs?—"

"Are a convenient excuse." Her eyes flash. "If you don't want me, just say it. Don't hide behind business and danger and whatever else helps you sleep at night."

"You think I'm sleeping?" The words escape before I can stop them, raw and revealing. "You think I close my eyes and don't see you? Don't remember how you felt under me, around me? Don't hear you saying my name like it's something sacred instead of something damned?"

She stares at me, color rising in her cheeks. For a moment, neither of us speaks––the only sound is our ragged breathing in the quiet library.

"Then why?" she whispers finally. "Why push me away?"

The truth hovers on my tongue, desperate to be spoken. I swallow it back, tasting ash.

"Because wanting isn't enough," I say instead. "Because some things are more important than desire."

"Like what?"

"Like keeping you alive.”

Her face goes pale, then flushes with something that might be anger or understanding or both.

"That's not your choice to make," she says, but her voice wavers.

"Isn't it?" I move closer, and this time she doesn't retreat. "I've buried one wife, Kira. I won't bury another."

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