Chapitre 14

Day 7

_PDV NICKE_

Tuesday, 07, 3 AM.

It's obvious that he's not her type. None of them really were. Yet, he was her boyfriend for a long time.

Too long.

I stare at the document, the photos lined up on the screen. A gallery of three exes, clearly chosen to fill a void, not to fulfill one.

My eyes scan each face, each frozen smile. Features too smooth, lifeless gazes, cookie-cutter replicas from the same mold... blondes, the good guy, the stable guy, the guy without edges.

Not me.

I exhale through my nose. Why does it annoy me so much? It's not jealousy. It's that I wonder what she was looking for back then, what she's still looking for.

Because none of them resemble her. And I wonder if I resemble her a little too much.

Or not at all.

Kira has been alone since yesterday. I'm forced to leave her alone. I'd love to analyze her, but not this morning.

I left her in her room, over there. The door was ajar. She hasn't come out for a while.

I paused for a moment in the hallway. I looked inside, just enough to see her without being seen.

She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, the computer on her lap, files open all around her.

She looked overwhelmed. Exhausted, but focused, completely absorbed in what she was doing. She typed quickly, furrowed her brows, switched tabs, checked boxes.

I could have walked in, talked to her, made her angry, just to get her to look up. But no. She didn't see me. So I left her alone.

I had better things to do.

Now, I'm elsewhere, sitting in this impersonal living room that Allya found for me. Bathed in red light, I spend my time staring at photos of strangers, and I tell myself that something is off.

Because if they don't resemble her, and if I don't either, then who is she really looking for?

Does she even know?

I flip through one face after another. I search for what she might have liked about them.

Maybe that's what bothers me the most, not understanding.

Or maybe I don't care. Maybe I just need to close this damn file and stop looking for answers in others.

But at 3 AM, we're never as reasonable as we pretend to be.

I close the exes folder.

Then, I open another one, more informative, harder to look at.

A classified, organized folder. Constructed like a report. Inside are moments, fragments. Not of them, but of her with them.

Kira and her exes.

Photos, recordings collected, information gathered over time. Not stolen, just acquired.

Everything she shared with them, I have. Everything they said, everything they did, everything they had.

And it tightens somewhere in my throat. Not because of an overflow of feelings; I've seen too much to be surprised. But because what they had, they didn't deserve.

They had her without understanding her worth; they had her when she didn't yet know how to hide her light.

I scroll through.

One takes her to a ridiculous gala; she smiles, but her shoulders say she's bored.

Another helps her into a rental car. She closes her eyes, but her hand remains clenched on the door.

A third writes her pathetic letters. She looked at the letters with exasperation, maintaining a bored expression.

They weren't there out of love, but out of obligation. A poor analyst would see it effortlessly.

And me, I'm here, observing these archives like an investigator.

But I'm not here to understand. I'm here to control her, to anticipate her. To know what they had, so that I have no less.

Never.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. Clev, always calling at the wrong time.

I answer without emotion.

- Tell me, are you aware that Kira has a slight injury? Yesterday, she was attacked. Nashtia just told me...

I hang up.

One heartbeat later, I stand up. I leave.

- I'm not here; I'm going. I inform my men, my tone sharp.

They nod; they know I don't explain myself.

I get into the car, driving quickly but without violence. The movements are clear, precise.

My thoughts are already at the place I'm going.

I park, get out, and enter quietly.

She's there.

In the living room, bandaging herself, alone, methodical, efficient. Her foot is already trapped in a bandage. Her face is neutral, almost blasé, as if she's repairing herself without thinking.

She looks up at me, and time suspends. Our gazes lock.

I remain still. I observe her, I calculate.

I haven't yet decided whether to ask a question or take action. She finishes her bandage calmly, as if my presence is just another detail.

She stands up. She shows nothing. No surprise, no embarrassment. She knew I would eventually find out, come.

- You're quick, she murmurs, her voice calm, almost ironic.

I remain silent for a moment. I look her up and down. The bandage on her foot is tight, too clean to have been done by someone else.

She handled this alone.

As usual.

- Why am I hearing about this from Clev? My voice is low, sharp. No anger, just a statement.

- Because I didn't want to give you a medical report. She replies, shrugging.

- You got attacked? I say, ignoring her eyes that scream fatigue.

- It happens. She says, crossing her arms calmly. Defensive? No. Controlled. She knows exactly what she's doing.

- Who? I don't need to raise my voice. It's a question with only one right answer.

She sizes me up.

- I don't know. She responds defiantly. I disturb her.

I tilt my head.

She's lying. Or she thinks she can buy time.

- You don't know? I press.

She steps closer slowly, no fear in her eyes. Nothing, even though I know her foot hurts. She's good at this game. But I'm better.

- It's not important, Nicke. I managed. She breathes out, looking up, now closer to me, my height forcing her to look up.

I smile, just a little. A smile without warmth.

- Of course, you managed. But that's not what I'm asking. I calmly split as I pass her to sit in her former spot.

She doesn't respond. She must feel the rage rising within me.

- Who touched your arm? A calm tone, almost gentle. Yet, every word is a trap.

A cold promise.

- You think you control everything, huh? Even this? She averts her gaze. For a second. Then she locks her eyes back on mine.

I fixate on her.

- I don't think anything. I control. And if there's one thing I don't control yet, I intend to control it. I reply impatiently.

- Are you talking about me or that guy? She asks, stepping closer gently. She puts less weight on her left ankle.

- So, it's a guy. And stop playing with your injury. I say, standing up to grab her, moving her enough for her to sit in my former spot.

A silence settles. The kind of silence that cuts off oxygen.

I slowly turn my back to her and walk toward the coffee table to put away the rest of the bandage.

I remain still, my back to her.

- I'm not your property, Nicke. She informs me; her eyes must reflect a hateful emotion.

- No. But you'll never be someone else's. I assert without hesitation.

She freezes in silence. Not for long, just enough. Then I slowly turn back.

- And what if I decided to be? She questions, a smirk on her lips, too vague to be sarcastic.

She's sincere.

I step closer. This time, very close, just a few centimeters, my gaze locked on hers.

- I will find him. And you will regret it. Believe me, Moya Zlaya, I'm not a hesitant killer.

Leaning over her, our gazes lock, and the air between our lips becomes heavy with promises and desire.

I observe her with a mix of danger and desire. Look closely, Kira, this is what fuels me within you.

Those green marbles that are not intimidated by the cruel, manipulative, and evil being that I am.

You kill; you have to, but your manners, your tactics are too cheerful for a simple job. I want to see you kill and take pleasure in it; I know we are alike.

After all, I play a lot to win your graces, Kira.

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