Page 26 of Crystal Wrath
I stay quiet, carving into the steak with restrained aggression.
“I remember when you used to look at me that way.”
The words hit their target. I set my glass down and meet her eyes. “Bianca.”
Her fingers brush mine across the table. The touch is soft, familiar, and electric in ways I'd forgotten. It's meant to disarm me, to lure me into a softness that feels dangerously familiar. Her skin is silken and warm, exactly as I remember from nights when the world outside our bedroom didn't exist.
“You don't have to pretend with me,” she says, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You can stop being thepakhanfor five minutes. Just be the man I used to know. Let me help you remember what that feels like.”
There's a vulnerability in her tone that catches me off guard. Or maybe it's performance. With Bianca, it's always both. She's an artist at manipulation, but the emotions underneath are real. That's what made our relationship so intense and so destructive.
I look at her, really look at her. The woman who once saw the darkest parts of me and kissed them anyway. But I’m not the man she wants anymore. That version of me is gone. And I can’t pretend Elena hasn’t changed everything. That she hasn’t reminded me what it feels like to want something beyond power, fear, and control.
Still, when Bianca rises from her seat and holds out her hand, I take it. Old habits die hard.
The private dining room is empty except for us. Leather chaise lounge, velvet drapes, a view of the skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass. The city spreads out below us like a circuit board, with all its lights, connections, and hidden currents of power.
She closes the door behind us and turns, her fingers sliding smoothly down the straps of her dress. “You remember this room?” she whispers.
I do. We've been here before, months ago, when she was trying to convince me to take her back after our last explosive breakup. The memory is sharp and painful, wrapped in the scent of her perfume and the taste of regret.
She steps closer, her dress sliding lower, revealing sun-warmed skin and a delicate collarbone. Her perfume fills the space, sweetand heavy. She presses her body against mine, and I can feel the heat of her through the thin silk. Her lips brush my jaw, soft and insistent.
“This could be easy,” she murmurs against my neck. “You and me. No complications. No reporters asking dangerous questions. Just us, the way it used to be.”
My hands find her waist, instinct overriding reason. She's familiar in ways that Elena isn't. Known. Safe. Predictable. She moans softly, her breath hot against my neck, and I remember why I couldn't stay away from her for two years. Her mouth finds mine, and the kiss is hungry, desperate, tasting of wine and memories.
For a moment, I kiss her back. I let myself fall into the warmth of something that once felt like love. And then I stop. Because it's not her I'm thinking about. When I close my eyes, I see dark hair instead of blonde, brown eyes instead of hazel, and a mouth that challenges me instead of simply tempting me.
Because it's not Elena.
I step away, the absence between us as loud as a gunshot.
Bianca blinks, her lipstick smeared, her hair mussed. Hurt flashes across her face like lightning, quickly buried beneath the polished elegance she wears as a shield. She straightens her dress without a word, her movements sharp.
“I see,” she says, her tone as cool as winter.
“I didn't come here for this,” I state.
She nods slowly, and I can see her rebuilding her walls. “No. You came here because you're falling for someone you shouldn't. And that terrifies you more than anything.”
I don't deny it. I can't.
“She's going to destroy you,” Bianca says quietly. “Not intentionally. But she's going to make you soft, make you weak. And in your world, weakness is a death sentence.”
“Maybe I'm tired of being afraid of death.”
“And maybe you're lying to yourself.” She picks up her purse. Her movements are graceful despite the tremors in her hands. “But I hope you're right. I hope she's worth what you're risking.”
I leave without another word, but her perfume follows me out into the night.
Back at the penthouse, the air feels heavier than usual. The scent of cigar smoke lingers in the hallway, mixing with the salt air from the bay. I find Sergey in the study, seated near the window, a tumbler of vodka in one hand and a Cuban cigar in the other.
He glances up when I enter, and I notice the slight flush in his cheeks that tells me he's been drinking for some time. “Well?”
“She tried,” I say, pouring myself a drink from the crystal decanter on the sidebar.
“Of course, she did.” He takes a long drag from his cigar, the ember glowing orange in the dim light. “Bianca's always been good at knowing what men want.”
