Page 69 of The Encore’s Crown

“Yeah.” I swallow. “You’re right.”

He pulls me against him so quickly my breath catches. One arm locks around my waist, the other hand sliding along my jaw. His mouth brushes my ear.

“Next time I see you,” he whispers, “if you still want me, I won't hold back.”

I nod against him. He draws back just enough to look at me, then his mouth crashes into mine. It feels nothing like a goodbye. It feels hungrier than that, desperate, as if both of us are trying to take enough with us to survive whatever comes next. When we finally separate, he holds my face firmly but gently between his hands and locks his eyes on mine.

When he speaks, every trace of teasing is gone. “Text me when you get in, so I know you’re safe.”

“I will.”

“Once you're home, we’ll take it from there. Figure this out.”

“That sounds simpler than it feels. Especially the keeping it a secret from everyone part.”

“It’s our secret for now.” His mouth twists slightly. “Some Romeo and Juliet-level shit.”

I laugh, even though it hurts. “They died and everyone still hated each other. Definitely goals.”

“Right.” He grimaces. “Bad example.”

“The worst.”

He opens the door and checks the hallway before stepping back to let me pass.

My room is only a few doors away. Leaving his shouldn’t feel like anything major, but every step takes me farther from the warmth of his bed, the press of his body, the strange little world we built in the dark while everyone else slept. By the time I reach my door, the hallway already feels colder.

I look back. Kiri is still standing in his doorway, watching me.

Then I slip inside, knowing Seattle waits for me on the other side of all this—gray, rainy, routine, boring as fuck, and suddenly unbearable now that I know what it feels like to be here with him.

Chapter 29

Home Safe

Natalia

The minute I close my door behind me, the morning attacks. My suitcase is still open on the floor, clothes hanging from it like it attempted to escape and gave up halfway through. My makeup is scattered across the desk. One heel is beneath the bed, the other somehow beside the bathroom sink, and I have less than an hour to transform myself from visibly ruined into a functional human being capable of international travel. I stand there for a moment anyway, staring at nothing.

His smell is still on me. Sandalwood, warm skin, and something underneath that I can never figure out. Spice, maybe? Something sexy and burning, which makes sense because the man is basically a walking fire hazard. It’s ridiculous what he does to me. The scent of him is caught in my hair where his arm held me against his chest and pressed into my cheek from his pillow. It lingers along my shoulder where his mouth kept finding me every time I tried to dress.

I don’t want to wash it away.

That thought is so pathetic I immediately strip and get into the shower. The water turns hot, carrying the last few hours down the drain. I wash my hair and soap my skin. Some stupid part of me feels sad about it. Sad. About a fucking shower. Who the hell is this woman, and what did he do to me with those magic hands and that perfect fucking body? I let out an irritated sigh, though I’m no longer sure who I’m angry at.

I thought I’d been into people before. I’ve dated men I genuinely liked. Men I found attractive. Men who could kiss well and make me laugh and look good beside me in photos. None of it ever felt like this.

No one has ever worked their way this deep beneath my skin. My phone alarm goes off from the counter, reminding me I don’t have time for an emotional breakdown. I rinse the conditioner from my hair, wrap myself in a towel, and begin the emergency reconstruction of Natalia Sawadzka. Forty minutes later, I’m dressed, packed, moisturized, highlighted, and wearing sunglasses large enough to conceal both exhaustion and poor choices. Kasia knocks. I can tell it’s her by the sound alone. I let her in, then return to the monumental task of closing my suitcase.

“You ready?”

“In progress.”

She takes in my suitcase and the fact I’m still attempting to force a curling iron into an already-full bag.

“It needs some Polish encouragement,” I say, pressing my full weight onto it as I try to force it shut.

“It needs less shit,” she says with a sigh. Finally, she comes over and presses her weight onto the case while I drag the zipper around it.