21.2

Her voice grew softer, soaked in something wistful and awed.
"It’s like watching someone lose a war they didn’t know they were fighting until it was too late. That resistance made the moments of tenderness stand out more—like they glowed. The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. How he felt after the accident when he thought he’d hurt me. The way he held back from hurting me, even when he had every reason not to. The way his thoughts shifted from rage to… longing."
‘Oh my god,’ Tempest whispered, breathless. ‘He really does care for you.’
"I don’t think he knows it yet," Nuri said, smiling softly. Her hand touched her chest, as if trying to calm the warmth swelling behind her ribs. "But I do. I saw it. I felt it. And I can’t stop thinking about him now—not just what I saw, but what I felt when he touched me. That kiss... Temp, it wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t just heat or hunger. It was him."
Tempest didn’t speak right away. Nuri felt her stillness, the rare reverence in her silence.
Then came a quiet, trembling thought: ‘You’re falling for him.’
"I might be," Nuri whispered, her lips curving into a shy, stunned smile. "God help me, I think I might be. I can’t believe I’m happy about this," she muttered with a breathy laugh, though her chest still ached from everything she’d seen. The echo of Kalmin’s memories was still pulsing in her chest, a tender ache wrapped in something warmer. Her heart stuttered when she heard his boots creaking down the stairs. She turned toward the door, brushing off the daze like dust from her shoulders. "Looks like it’s time to go."
She hopped off the counter, her limbs still tingling from the aftershocks of those borrowed memories, and shoved her laptop into her backpack before jogging downstairs to meet him.
"Ready?" Kalmin asked, holding the front door open for her. She caught the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, as if he didn’t understand what was changing between them, only that it was. She hurried past him, sinking into the passenger seat of his car before her heart gave her away.
"Do you want to stop and get something before we get to the office?" he asked as he slid into the driver’s seat. "We never ate our breakfast."
"Sure. Whatever you want is fine," Nuri replied, reaching for the handle—but before her fingers could curl around it, Kalmin’s hand was already there, covering hers. His fingers laced through hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I can open my own door," she said, a little breathless, watching him through the glass reflection.
"I’m sure you can." His voice was low, steady. He didn’t let go. Instead, he eased her hand away, then opened the door himself. And before she could process what was happening, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it—slow, reverent. His eyes locked on hers, and something in her chest unraveled.
"But that’s not your job anymore."
‘Holy…’ Tempest’s voice was awestruck, silent for a beat. Nuri could barely breathe. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. There were no words in her head—just the warm press of his lips, the weight of his memories still echoing inside her. So, she slid silently into the car, stunned and silent, clutching the memory like a secret.
She opened her book without reading the words. Her thoughts were still lingering in the mirror—lingering in the way she’d seen him. Not the hatred. Not the guilt. But the way his love had bloomed in spite of it. Not some grand epiphany, not all at once. Just… slow. Quiet. Reluctant, but steady. And it was real.
"Your father used to be a beta before he married your mother, right?" Kalmin asked suddenly.
She blinked. "Right."
'That came out of nowhere.'
"That means he attended the boys’ academy. He would’ve had formal training. Did he ever teach you anything?"
She bristled at the question, heart already defensively curling in. "I think it’s pretty obvious he didn’t."
‘What a terrible father.’ Kalmin didn’t say anything right away. But Rian did.
‘You only met him once,’ Rian countered.
‘Once was enough. He let me walk out with her without even trying. He could’ve taught her everything she needed. Instead, he did nothing.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that…’
Kalmin’s voice brought her back. “That thought you had, when we first came home—about how if your parents loved you, they wouldn’t have set you up for ridicule—you were right.”
The tears caught her off guard. One blink, then another—and they were falling, silent and furious. "Why wouldn’t he teach me?" Her voice cracked around it.
Kalmin exhaled shakily, guilt rising in his throat. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
"No, you shouldn’t have," Nuri snapped, wiping her tears and grabbing her bag. "But you did anyway. So you don’t get to be sorry."
She didn’t look back as she walked toward the office.
‘I know you’re mad at me,’ Kalmin said to Rian, ‘but save it. I already regret it.’
He opened the door across from his and gestured inside. “This office is yours.”
She stepped into the room, wiping her face—and stopped short. Her heart did a quiet, stunned flip.
It wasn’t just a workspace. It was hers. A plush sectional instead of a stiff desk. Empty bookshelves waiting for her mark. A treadmill in the corner beneath a mounted TV.
"A treadmill?" she asked, tugging on her earlobe as nerves crept up again. Is he saying I need to work out?
‘You’re in amazing shape,’ Tempest blurted, as indignant as she was reassuring.
Kalmin didn’t notice either reaction. “I get restless when I study. Running helped me focus. But if it doesn’t work for you, ignore it.”
He gently took her backpack and placed it on the couch, then guided her down the hall to the kitchenette.
“I restocked what I could without knowing what you liked,” he said. “While you study, I’ll be in meetings.”
She glanced at him, overwhelmed again. Not by the room. Not by the snacks or the treadmill. But by the care.
“You’re trying to distract me so I don’t bug you while you work?” she teased.
He flinched—just a little.
"It was a joke!" she said quickly, wrapping her arms around him without thinking. “I love it. Thank you.”
"You don’t need to thank me," Kalmin murmured, bending to kiss the top of her head. "But don’t hesitate to interrupt me if you need something, alright?"
He walked her back to the front and left, and she didn’t move until his car disappeared. Then she returned to her new office, still dazed, still reeling.
"I don’t know how he does any of this," she said aloud. "You spend the night with Rian, and I wake up next to Kalmin. Does he not sleep?"
‘Maybe his betas help? They are kind of like personal assistants…’
"Maybe." She sighed, setting her book on her lap again. “Or maybe he just really cares.”
‘Do you feel that?’ Tempest asked suddenly, her voice sharper than before. Her awareness flared like a spark in the back of Nuri's mind, scanning the room as if she'd catch something mid-motion.
"Feel what?" Nuri asked, pausing mid-sentence and glancing up from her book.
'I don’t know. Just… something feels wrong. Just… off.' Tempest’s growl was faint, more confused than threatening, and that unsettled Nuri more than anything.
Nuri glanced around the room again. It looked the same—quiet, cozy, harmless. But now her eyes lingered on things a little longer. The bookshelf. The television. The empty corners. There was nothing out of place.
"You’re probably just tired," Nuri whispered, her voice more hopeful than confident. "Take a nap, Temp. I’ll make a document with the important stuff. You can catch up when you wake up."
Tempest hesitated, her silence stretching long enough to make Nuri wonder if she’d already fallen asleep. Then: ‘Okay, but only for a little while. Wake me if anything even feels weird.’
“I will,” Nuri promised, watching the television for a second longer before blinking it away and forcing her focus back to the book.
Tempest's presence slowly dulled, drifting off with reluctance, but the unease didn’t fade with her. It lingered, like a breath held too long. Like something waiting. And if Tempest had looked just a little longer—if she’d pushed past the haze of exhaustion and honed in on the source of her instincts—she might have noticed the faint, blinking red light buried in the shadowed mount beneath the television.
But she didn’t. And the camera kept recording.