Page 65 of Refrain

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHLOE

I comealive against a warm hand cupping my lower back—nothing else can describe waking up like this. One whiff of cigarette smoke and I can identify the culprit. He must have held me during the night. It’s a disgusting token of concern from a man who exudes kindness without trying.

Darkness too.

The stench of it lingers on him. Like smoke. Like mint. Like blood, clinging beneath the stink of sweat and lust.

As I peel my eyes open to the cold, gray daylight painting the edges of the room, I can’t bring myself to move. I’m still straddling him, my face in his neck, his hands on my waist. It’s pathetic to admit, but I could come again, just like this. Listening to the sound of his breathing. Feeling his breath against my throat.

Reluctantly, I unfurl my stiff, sore limbs and roll my weight from him. He grunts when I do. I guess he’s been awake all along.

“We should get back to the bar,” he says.

But we don’t move. We just lie here like two statues in a world of his own making.

The creations I assume he put on the canvases seem to fill every available space from this angle. Splotches of red. Black. Green. Yellow—mainly the last one. It’s the color under his fingernails now, I see when I glance over. There’s no substance to any of the newer pieces. Just streaks of that onehue, over and over and over.

I could lie here for hours, trying to decipher them all. Maybe I do. I’m not sure how much time has passed when he finally moves, breaking the spell. With a shift of his body, he puts space between us and tugs on the hem of his shirt, tucking any bit of stray skin away. Then he enters the kitchen and turns the faucet on. He splashes water on his face until it drips onto the floor. With his face still wet, he grabs a plastic cup from a cupboard, fills it, and drains the entire thing.

“I…I need a shower,” he grits out before heading down the hallway.

I can tell from the way he walks that it will be a cold one. The realization alone diminishes whatever heat he left behind. Angels are strange creatures. He’s selfless enough to touch me with his hands, but nothing more. He won’t even let me touchhim.

But why do I want to? It’s a terrifying question. It’s a relieving puzzle at the same time. Piotr didn’t break me after all, ruining me for any other man. It just so happens that the only one to make me feel…anything isn’t interested in the leftovers of the Russian Syndicate.

I hear the water running from my position. I picture the scene beneath it before I can help myself. His scars basted in the glow of the dim artificial light. The letters of his tattoo blazingon his damp chest. His hair slicked back.

A hard swallow doesn’t dislodge the tightness at the back of my throat. It’s funny. Now, I might have a faint idea of what drives men to frequent places like Moe’s. Cheap, easy sex with no strings. With him… Maybe I’d consider it. Debase myself just to get him out of my skin. Out of my goddamn head.

The only way to block the idea out is to stand and pace.Remember.I shake my head to reinforce the command. Remember. Think. Why am I here? Because of Grey. I upheld my end of the bargain. My next step is to outsmart Petrov. Keep moving. Find Anna. Devise a new plan. Be ready.

The bathroom door opens down the hall, but the water’s still running. I turn and find him there, sandwiched between the doorway and the door.

“I need to grab a towel,” he says, his gaze on the hallway across from him. It’s like he’s asking for my permission to traipse around his own house naked.

The polite thing to do would be to turn my back and let him. Better yet, I should leave and return to the bar on my own. Francisco would be expecting me around now. Maybe that’s what I plan to do when I start in his direction.

But, somewhere between him and the frontdoor,I change my course of direction.

Inside the hallcloset,I find a stack of towels and washcloths. I grab two of each and turnforthe bathroom. He extends his hand, angling the door to hide as much of himself from me as he can. The only clue to his shock when I slip past him is a widening of his eyes. He steps back. Maybe in confusion. Maybe in invitation. Either way, I keep going and set the towels down on the floor beside the tub. Then I strip my shirt and my pants off and climb inside.

I hear the door close through the spray. For a moment, it’s so silent that he could have left. A layer of steam has flooded the room by the time the shower curtain is finally drawn back from the outside. Damp curls shield most of his face from view. I can only make out the stern ridge of his jaw as he braces one hand against the tiled wall of the shower and enters the stall. He’s cautious but doesn’t shy away from standing too close. Tempting me.

I back away, freeing enough space for him to stand oppositeme. But not much. I take his hand, feeling the shudder that runs through his skin. I don’t need anything else. Just this. His nearness. This closeness. Everything else in my head is a distant murmur when he’s near. Ineedthat silence.

It’s like he knows that. He doesn’t resist my touch. He humors me and my silent request for more of him. More nearness.

Maybe it’s enough.

Maybe not.

It’safternoon by the time we get dressed and return to the bar. Francisco shouts at me to, “Give me a fucking hand!” the moment I step over the threshold, andEspisidojust keeps going, probably searching for Arno.

Wading knee-deep into a sea of broken glass and spilled beer should help take my mind off him.

But it doesn’t. Withdrawal is a cruel fucking thing. Coming down from whatever shit Piotr had injected into my veins during those long, dark years was easier than this. I still remember the unofficial detox. Ivan had to strap me down while I writhed and screamed obscenities at the wall for days.

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