Page 37 of Crystal Wrath
“Who is allowed in the west wing?” I murmur, testing the waters.
His expression doesn't change, but I sense a subtle shift in his posture. “Just me.”
“It's locked.”
“Yes.”
I set my fork down slowly, the silver ringing softly against the fine china. “What's in there?”
“Things that matter to me,” he replies, sipping his wine with deliberate casualness. “Things I don't share.”
That stings more than it should. The casual dismissal, the way he shuts down my curiosity without explanation. “You trust me enough to bring me here but not enough to let me know what's behind one door?”
He lifts an eyebrow, the expression questioning yet mocking. “You're alive, aren't you?”
“That's not the same as trust.”
“No,” he admits quietly, his voice dropping to a tone I haven't heard before. “It's not.”
I stare at him, searching for cracks in the armor. But there are none. Just a fortress built of secrets and power and a past I'm only beginning to understand. Every answer he gives me leads to more questions. Every revelation only deepens the mystery of who he really is.
“Why do you care what happens to me?” I ask, the question escaping before I can stop it.
His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat, then back up to meet my gaze. “Because I do.”
That should be enough. But it's not.
The non-answer frustrates me more than outright lies would. At least lies would give me something to work with, something to unravel. This careful neutrality, this refusal to reveal anything real about himself, makes me feel like I'm shadowboxing with smoke.
I rise from my seat, the movement sharp and decisive. The chair scrapes slightly against the polished floor. “Goodnight, Renat.”
I turn without waiting for permission or approval, my heart pounding louder than the click of my shoes across the floor. Behind me, he doesn't call my name. He doesn't stop me. Doesn't protest my abrupt departure.
But I feel his gaze burning into my back long after I've left the room, following me down the hallway like a physical touch. And I know this game between us is far from over.
12
ELENA
Four days have passed since Renat forced me into his world and dragged me beneath the roof of his estate, convincing himself it was for my protection. Four days since he held me in his arms with a gun still warm in his hand and blood on his jacket, promising I was safe even though I didn't believe it then, and I'm not sure I believe it now.
I've barely spoken to him since that first dinner.
It's not that I don't have things to tell him. Questions burn through my mind constantly, keeping me awake at night as I stare at the ornate ceiling of my borrowed room. I want to demand answers about Bennato, about the explosion that nearly killed me, about why a man like Renat Rostov would risk everything to save a journalist from Little Havana. But every time I see him, every time those hazel eyes find mine across the dining room or passing through these endless hallways, my throat closes up with something I refuse to think about.
He gives me space, though I sense it costs him. During meals, he remains polite and distant, asking if I need anything while never quite meeting my gaze for more than a heartbeat. I respondwith equal coldness, answering his questions with single words when possible, declining his offers of books or walks through the garden. The silence between us grows thicker each day, brimming with things neither of us will acknowledge.
I tell myself it's better this way. Safer. But the truth gnaws at me in the quiet hours when I can't sleep and I pace the length of my room like a restless tide wondering what he's doing in that mysterious west wing he won't let me enter.
Tonight is no different. The clock on my nightstand reads well past midnight, and sleep eludes me again. Security personnel move through the halls on their scheduled rotations, their footsteps muffled but present, a steady pulse of protection laced with confinement.
I slip from my bed and pad barefoot through the corridors, drawn by a restlessness I can't shake. The marble feels cool against my feet, and the moonlight streaming through the tall windows creates geometric patterns on the floor. Everything here is beautiful and cold, elegant and lifeless, like living inside a museum where you're not allowed to touch anything.
The library door stands slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I push it open and step inside, breathing in the scent of leather bindings and old paper. Floor-to-ceiling shelves surround me, filled with books in multiple languages. Russian, English, Italian, and French, a polyglot's paradise that speaks to the international nature of Renat's world.
I select a volume of Russian poetry, though I can’t read the Cyrillic script. The leather binding is soft with age, and I carry it to the oversized armchair by the window. The cushions embrace me as I curl up, legs tucked beneath me, the book open acrossmy lap. I don't try to read it. Just let my eyes trace the unfamiliar letters while my mind wanders.
Outside, Miami's lights twinkle like earthbound stars, and the bay stretches into darkness. From here, the world looks peaceful and manageable. Nothing like the chaos that brought me to this place.
