Page 10 of The Encore’s Crown

“If it's related to social media,” Kasia says into her wine.

I kick her lightly under the table. Across from me, Kiri’s gaze finally flicks up. Quick, dark, and gratingly unreadable. It lands on me, then moves away before I can catch it properly. There he is, just watching, then not watching, like I’m a fire he refuses to warm his hands over. It makes something mean and petty in me sharpen its nails. Because it’s clear now what he’s doing. He's not going to make this easy for me. He's not going to sit across from me looking wrecked while I punish him in front of everyone. No, Kiri has decided to be cold. Distant. He's probably even convinced himself he's being mature. Which is rich from a man who once spent a whole day arguing with me over whether my voice sounded sexier when I was sleepy or angry. Fine, let him act like nothing matters.

I can act better.

The dinner moves on. The wine softens the edges of the table, everyone loosening around the carefully placed tension. Kiri remains polite, contained, almost boring in his control. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe him. But I do know better. I see the way he avoids my mouth when I speak. I see the way he looks at Ronan when Ronan makes me laugh, he isn't exactly jealous but he's a shade too still. I see the way he answers Rafe while his attention sits somewhere else entirely, like one part of him is tracking me against his will. Then the moment comes, quiet and unassuming, exactly the kind that does the most damage.

“Could someone pass the kimchi?” Kiri asks.

His gaze stays on the dish, but I’m already moving before anyone else reacts.

“Sure.”

His eyes lift and there it is again. That stillness. I pick up the dish and lean forward just enough to make it necessary, inevitable. Close enough that the neckline of my top shifts and the perfume at my throat probably reaches him before the kimchi does. He reaches for it. I don’t let go right away. My fingers remain on the edge of the dish as his close around the other side. My nails, perfectly manicured and glossy under the restaurant lights, drag just slightly along his finger as he takes it. Barely enough to be felt.

His expression stays flat, almost bored, as if my touch means nothing. As if he didn’t once beg for a copy of a picture of my hand wrapped around a cocktail glass because he said my nails looked like trouble and he'd love to pretend my hand was wrapped around something else. I'd laughed at the comment back then and the urge to do the same now bubbles up, but I shove it down. He takes the dish from me with steady hands.

“Thanks,” he says.

Thanks. One word. I wish I'd thrown the kimchi at his head.

Then I see it. The muscle in his jaw jumps once, a tiny, brutal tell. His fingers tighten on the dish before he sets it down. I look up at him then, finally, for the first time all night, and give him the smallest smile. Sweet, private, just between us. The kind that says, yes, I did that, and yes, I saw that too. His eyes hold mine and for one second, all that coldness thins. There’s heat under it, buried and furious. Then he looks away first. He turns back to Rafe and says something about the set list like nothing happened at all.

Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable.

I take my seat again, composed, untouchable, already moving on in the conversation while my heartbeat thuds hard enough to frustrate me. Across from me, Kiri is quiet, calm. Still playing indifferent so well I might have believed it if I hadn’t felt the tremor he tried to kill before it reached his hand.

Oh, kochany.

Cold looks so good on you.

I wonder how long you'll stay frozen when I start playing dirty.

Chapter 5

Enough

Natalia

Back in my hotel room, the tension feels like something physical, like something or maybe someone pressed against me. I feel it the second the door shuts. It settles into the carpet, the walls, the sheets I haven’t even touched yet. It’s in my throat. Along my skin. The back of my neck. All the places I don't want Kiri Chhim to exist, places I don't want to imagine his hands or his mouth.

I don’t want it. I don’t want to feel it at all.

I drop my bag onto the chair harder than necessary and stand there in the middle of the room, glaring at nothing. My body has the absolute nerve to still feel him nearby, like proximity has left some kind of residue on my skin. His scent keeps coming back in pieces, uninvited and infuriating. Incense and sweetness, the cotton of his shirt, the leather from his jacket. Hair gel and heat. That stupid, expensive, warm smell that makes him seem calmer than he is, softer than he deserves, like he didn’t bow his head to Rafe and end things, like he didn't ruin everything because he got scared. It’s stupid. It’s unfair. It makes my skin feel stretched so tight I can’t live in it, can’t breathe in it.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate his big, dumb, ridiculously handsome face. The face that dared to pretend seeing me wasn't pure torture, that he tried to act like none of it ever mattered.

I kick off my shoes before stomping to the bathroom, ready to drag myself through my nightly routine like every bottle on the bathroom counter is a miniature Kiri, venting my frustrations with every squeeze and slap. I slather my face in an oil cleanser first. Then I follow it with toner, serum, another serum but this one's pink and more expensive, moisturizer, eye cream, lip mask, lotion everywhere because everyone knows soft skin begins by being glazed like a pączki (donut). By the time I smooth it over my thighs, my nerves are sparking in a way that makes me stop and glare at my own reflection in the hotel mirror. “Stop it,” I mutter, slapping on little under-eye masks like a final punishment.

Finally, I crawl into bed like sleep might do me a favor for once. It doesn't. I toss and turn, the sheets twist around my legs, clinging to me until I shove them away with a hiss of irritation. My brain keeps circling back to dinner no matter how violently I try to drag it elsewhere. His hand around his glass. His fingers flexing when he reached for the banchan. The brush of his finger against my nail when I passed the kimchi. His eyes catching mine for half a second too long before he looked away. Coward. He's a coward and I'm, what? An idiot, that's what. I’m the idiot lying here thinking about his hands.

I roll onto my stomach and press my face into the pillow, making a muffled sound that isn't a scream only because this is a very expensive hotel and I refuse to be escorted out for yelling into a ten-billion thread count pillow over him. My body, apparently unconcerned with my potential embarrassment, floods with memory. The breadth of him. The way he stood too close without touching me, as if he had any right to take up that much space near me or in my nervous system. I roll onto my back, flailing in annoyance, staring up at a ceiling that contains no relief from my thoughts, just patterns my eyes trace in an attempt at distraction.

Eventually, without deciding to, my hand slides down my stomach, more reflex than intention, chasing the idea of release just to make the feeling stop. I freeze. Then I practically launch it away from myself, sitting bolt upright like I’ve been electrocuted.