GUARDED FLAMES

CHAPTER THREE

EVANGELINE

He wouldn’t touch me.

No matter how close I got, no matter how breathless I became—he stayed behind his wall.

But walls crack eventually.

And I was starting to enjoy the sound of bricks giving way.

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The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet.

I knew where he’d be. He always disappeared around this time of night, into that little training room my father built for him downstairs—tucked between the wine cellar and the gun vault, like violence and fine taste made perfect neighbors.

I didn’t knock. Just opened the door and slipped in.

And there he was.

Sweat clung to his back, glistening under the dim light as he slammed his fists into the punching bag, each strike harder than the last. His black T-shirt clung to him like a second skin, biceps flexing, jaw tight. Focused. Silent.

He didn’t see me.

Not yet.

And God—I should’ve turned around. I should’ve left.

But instead, I leaned against the doorframe and watched.

Something about seeing him like that—unrestrained, raw, real—it made my stomach twist. I liked this version of him. The one he tried to hide.

“Nik.”

He froze.

His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, like my voice knocked the air right out of him. Slowly, he turned around. His eyes darkened the second they landed on me—and lingered. I wasn’t wearing much. Just a silk camisole and thin shorts. Barefoot. Braless.

I knew what I was doing.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” he said hoarsely.

“You knew I’d come.”

His hands flexed at his sides. “No, I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“Well,” I stepped closer, “hope’s a funny thing.”

I passed him slowly, brushing my shoulder against his arm as I circled the room. “You’re always so tense, Nikolai. Don’t you ever get tired of pretending you don’t see me?”

“I see everything.”

His voice was low. Controlled. Too controlled. That only made me want to break him more.

“Then stop acting like you don’t want me.”

Silence.

Then—he moved.

Fast.

One hand slammed against the wall beside my head. His other gripped the edge of the counter behind me, trapping me between his arms, body heat radiating off him like a furnace.

But he still didn’t touch me.

“You think this is a game,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I think you’re scared,” I whispered. “Scared you’ll love how I feel.”

His eyes dropped to my lips.

Then lower.

And stayed.

His breathing was rough. I felt the tension in his muscles, the war raging inside him. His past. His promises. His guilt.

Me.

“I’ve killed men for less than what I’m thinking right now,” he rasped.

“Then think it anyway.”

He leaned in. His mouth hovered next to my ear.

“Don’t tempt me, angel. You won’t survive it.”

And then—he was gone.

Just like that.

Gone.

The door clicked behind him, and I stood there, trembling, skin hot, heart screaming.

He didn’t touch me.

But I felt him everywhere.

And for the first time in my life, I wanted to be ruined.

By him.