Nikolai had always been captivated by birds. Their elegant wings, the way they soared effortlessly through the sky-it was a kind of beauty that never ceased to amaze him.
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He often watched them from his window, imagining what i...
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TWENTY NINE
As you made your way back into the main room, your thoughts remained clouded, the lingering taste of Nikolai's kiss still warm on your lips. You brushed your thumb slowly across your bottom lip, trying to erase the sensation—but the ghost of it remained. A soft exhale escaped you, as if you could push away the memory with a single breath.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Nikolai casually slide back toward Claire, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She giggled, resting her head against him. He shot you a side glare, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if daring you to react.
Your gaze flicked away quickly, cheeks burning, the tension curling in your chest like a knot. You cursed under your breath. Of course Nikolai couldn't just let the moment between you two end there—he had to rub it in. That was just like him.
With a huff, you turned toward Fyodor, who was seated gracefully on the leather couch. His long, pale fingers idly trailed the spine of a book, but his sharp eyes were already on you the moment you approached. There was something smug and knowing in his expression, the corners of his lips tugging upward just enough to be irritating.
"Ah," he murmured, his voice a soft purr. "And here I thought you were staying loyal." His words danced with amusement, teasing but smooth, like silk slipping through your fingers.
You rolled your eyes, flopping onto the armrest of the couch beside him, folding your arms. "We're not in a real relationship, Fyodor," you muttered, glancing down at him. "We're just pretending, remember? The whole point was to make those two jealous."
Fyodor tilted his head slightly, that knowing smile of his deepening as you leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead—a gesture that felt both familiar and strangely intimate. He let the kiss linger before giving you a soft hum of approval.
"I know, dear," he replied in that low, velvety voice of his. "Just playing with you."
His hand reached up slowly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You felt his fingertips graze your skin, leaving a cool trail in their wake—gentle, precise, and deliberate, as always.
"Although," he mused, "I must say, it's rather amusing to see you tangled up with the jester. I thought you hated him."
You scoffed, shifting your weight on the armrest, pretending to inspect your nails. "He's just... annoying," you muttered, though the words felt weak even to your own ears.
Fyodor gave a soft chuckle, a sound that was almost indulgent. He knew better—he always did. "Annoying?" he repeated, arching a brow as if savoring the word. "Interesting. That didn't seem to stop you from kissing him."
Your breath hitched at the way he said it, his tone rich with mockery but laced with just enough charm to make it impossible to stay mad. He was always so infuriatingly calm, as if nothing in the world could touch him—and maybe that's what irritated you most.
