Clara surfaced slowly from sleep, caught between the sweet sleepy haze, right before you remember that a dangerous criminal tried to murder you.
Her first sensation was warmth—steady, steady warmth pressed against her side. Then the faint rhythm of a soft breath, almost lulling her back under.
She opened her eyes to the dim light filtering through the balcony curtains. Cyra lay beside her, one arm curved loosely over her under the blanket, protectively, his hand curled under her injured rib.
Her eyes met his face and she noticed his head tilted toward her as if he'd fallen asleep watching over her. His dark lashes cut against the sharp planes of his face. Every line of him was unfairly perfect— his angular jaw, the faint curve of his mouth that hinted at mischief even in dreams. She allowed herself, for once, to simply look.
God, he's beautiful. The thought landed like a confession. She'd spent a long time reminding herself he was a nuisance, a show-off, a flirt with too much money and too little humility. But lying here, so close she could count every dark eyelash, none of that mattered. He was infuriating but also—achingly, breathtakingly—beautiful.
Her hand lifted almost on its own. Just a brush of her fingertips against his cheek, to feel the warmth of his skin. Just once. She hovered less than an inch away…
And his eyes opened.
Onyx and clear like a bottomless snake pit, locking with hers. A rush of heat seared down her chest, and she froze, caught like a child. For one suspended breath, neither of them moved. The air seemed to hum, alive with the same current that always sparked between them. His lips curved, slow, knowing, but not smug. Not this time. Something quieter.
Clara's chest tightened— those eyes were a truth serum that she was not ready to take. She snapped back to herself. She sat up too quickly, clutching her side with soft grunt. Cyra's eyes widened in worry but she waved him down. Her rib felt less like a semi-truck hit her and more like a moderate sport injury.
"What time is it?" she blurted. "Emily—Emily will be here any minute."
The spell shattered. Cyra stretched lazily, like a cat waking from a nap. "Hours," he said with a yawn. "We've been asleep for hours. Not exactly the polished welcome you wanted to give your dear friend?"
Her fingers tangled through her hair—knots everywhere, evidence of her sleepless tinkering the night before. Damn.
Panic broke through her exhaustion. "I look like hell. She's going to think you've…" She stopped herself, lips pressed tight.
Cyra smirked at the near-slip. "Think I've what, princess? Ravished you? I should be so lucky." He swung his legs off the bed. He disappeared through the doorway and shortly after, Natalia's voice rattled through the halls from Cyra's phone.
"I have a non-assassin favor to ask of you — what do you mean no, I haven't even asked you anything yet? — ok, fine. I promise I will hire someone but you will have be the one to vet them… — no? What is this no!? Everything no. Ok, ok can you please assist me in the vetting process because I trust your judgment and because I don't want you to kill them if you don't like them… which will be likely.— YES I will do all the work. —No you cannot kill them, we've been through this. Thank you dear!"
He entered the room with an amused expression. "Looks like I'm hiring an assistant." Clara didn't answer she was smoothing out all evidence of a second person from the bed.
"You may want to try this if you want to
keep our little ruse a secret." He spun the brush handle fluidly so that the handle faced her.
"There's no ruse. Nothing happened. We just slept. That's it. Nothing to hide." Her words were rushed.
"I meant the ruse of our moon gem mischief— get your head out of the gutter." He teased, a wicked smile gleemed.
She snatched the brush from his hands without answering.
Cyra leaned back on his hands, watching Clara scramble with her hair as if the world were about to end. Her panic about her disheveled appearance was a cross between humorous and endearing. The irony wasn't lost on him; she'd stared at him like he was something worth touching, worth keeping, before she caught herself. And damn if that hadn't nearly undone him.
He'd seen that look from women and men alike before—in boardrooms, ballrooms, in women who wanted him because of the name, the money, the power. But from her? Clara, who rolled her eyes at his cars and refused to let him pay for her coffee? That look burned hotter. More dangerous. Because it meant she was slipping.
And god did he want her to slip. He covered it the only way he knew how—with a smirk. With words sharp enough to redirect, to buy him some time to wrestle his own pulse back into something resembling control. Because the truth was, lying beside her… he hadn't slept that deeply in years. Her breathing had evened out, and for once, he hadn't felt like a chess piece in a board game trying to get ahead, worrying about the next move. He'd just felt… human.
Now she was tugging knots from her hair, wincing in frustration, and every instinct in him wanted to take the brush from her, smooth the strands himself, and kiss the crease from her brow.
While tugging at the tangled mess, she hissed when a sharp pain lanced her side. The brush clattered out of her hand and onto the ground.
A shadow fell over her. Cyra picked it up, twirling it lazily between long fingers. "You'll tear yourself apart like that."
"I can manage," she said, hand outstretched, waiting for the brush to return to her hand but it never did.
He pulled it from of her reach. "No. You can't."
Before she could argue, he settled behind her on the bed, one knee up to brace his elbow —the smell of maple leaves and fresh cut cedar filling the air.