Novels by Yuri

She caught it on a Tuesday. Nothing dramatic—just a tickle in her throat that turned into a cough, a low-grade fever that made her feel like she was wrapped in cotton. The kind of cold that wasn't dangerous, just miserable. The kind that made you want to curl up in bed and not move until spring.Vincent found her in the bedroom when he came back from the kitchen. She was under the duvet, her hair plastered to her forehead, a box of tissues on the nightstand.He stopped in the doorway. “You're sick.”“Astute observation.”He didn't laugh. He just stood there, looking at her like she was a problem he needed to solve. She recognized that look. It was the same one he wore when he was checking sightlines, assessing threats, calculating exits.“I'm fine,” she said.“You're not.”“It's just a cold.”He didn't answer. He turned and walked out.She heard him in the

The remote control became their first real disagreement.Not a fight. Nothing like the safe apartment or the women at bars. Just a quiet, stubborn standoff between two people who had very different ways of watching movies.She liked to skip ahead. Not because she didn't respect the story—she did. But she was impatient. She needed to know if the ending was worth the buildup. She'd watched too many films that promised everything and delivered nothing. She didn't want to invest an hour and a half in something that would let her down.He insisted on watching from the beginning. Every scene. Every pause. Every moment of silence that the director had intended.The first time it happened, she reached for the remote, scrolled forward, pressed play. He looked at her. She looked at him.“What,” she said.“You skipped.”“It was a slow part.”“It was the first fifteen minutes.”&

She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, the windows had cleared and the first hint of dawn was creeping over the hills. He started the engine and drove them home.When they walked through the door of the penthouse, the sun was just beginning to rise over the city, painting the living room in shades of gold and pink. She stood at the window, looking down at the streets she'd walked a thousand times, and felt something settle in her chest—not peace, exactly, but something close.He came up behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. "What are you thinking.""I'm thinking I should get some sleep before the sun comes up completely and I have to face the fact that I just agreed to consider moving into an eight-million-dollar apartment.""You already agreed to consider it. That's not the same as agreeing.""I know." She turned to face him. "But I'm not running. That's the part that matters."He looked at her for a long moment. Then he pulled her close, one hand cradlin

She didn't answer with words. She reached over, placed her palm against his cheek. ”You bought us a penthouse.””Yes.””And you hunted down the people who were threatening you.””Yes.””And you let another woman kiss you.”His jaw tightened under her palm. ”I didn't let her—””I know.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. ”I'm keeping score. You're still ahead.”He pulled back just enough to look at her. ”That's not how scoring works.””It is tonight.” She kissed him—slow, deliberate, nothing like the frantic kisses they'd shared before. This was different. This was a question and an answer at the same time.He didn't rush to deepen it. He let her set the pace. His hand came up to her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone, holding her like she was something precious. When she pulled back, his ey

They drove through the city in silence, the same Miles Davis track playing low on the stereo that had been playing the night they met. At the restaurant, the waiter brought their crème brûlée with its perfect caramelized shell.She cracked the caramel with the back of her spoon. The sound was clean—just like he'd taught her. She took a bite, closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, he was watching her. Not the way Emily had described—not cold assessment. Something else. Something that made her chest ache."Do you remember what you told me the first time we came here," she said."That good crème brûlée cracks clean. Doesn't shatter."He watched her take another bite. The way her lips closed around the spoon. The way she closed her eyes again, just for a moment, like she was letting herself feel something she'd been holding back. He didn't look away. He didn't want to.He reached across t

He escorted her to the Mercedes, opening the passenger door before walking around to the driver's side. The engine purred to life. He pulled onto the street, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift.She stared out the window for a long moment. The city lights blurred past. Then: "What did you do. Those four days."He was quiet. Then: "I closed things down. Accounts. Contacts. Loose ends." He glanced at her. "I want to be done with all of it."She turned her head to look at him. "What does that mean.""I bought a place." His voice was calm, but his grip on the wheel was slightly too tight. "A penthouse downtown. It's yours if you want it. A fresh start. For both of us."She stared at him. "You bought a penthouse?""Yes.""Without telling me?""I wasn't sure I'd ever get the chance to show it to you."She didn't respond. He pulled into the parking garage beneath a towering glass building and killed the en