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I was right to leave. I can’t afford to get attached. To her or anyone else.
19
YAKOV
It’s late when I get back. The mansion is dark.
I drove for hours after dumping Luna’s ex on the pavement, but I couldn’t outpace reality. I couldn’t outpace her.
Because Luna is under my skin.
No other woman has ever gotten close enough to have the opportunity. But days of circling around each other is doing shit to me on some primal fucking level that defies logic. She’s in my house; I need to protect her.
It will fade when she’s gone, I’m sure. I just need to keep a grip on myself until then.
I assumed Luna would be asleep by now, but as I walk down the hallway, blue light flickers from the living room. I hear muffled voices from the television.
Keep walking, you bastard, I tell myself. Go straight to your office and go the fuck to sleep.
But I stop in the doorway to the living room instead.
Luna is lying on the couch. She has a blanket over her legs and her cat on her lap. But my eyes are drawn upwards to what she’s clothed in.
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
She jolts at the sound of my voice, sending Gregory flying. The little mongrel dives under the coffee table with a hiss.
“I didn’t hear you.” She blows out a sharp breath, her hand pressed to her chest. Pressed to the fabric of my shirt.
She crossed a line. She touched my shit. I should rip it off of her and take it back.
The problem is that that’s exactly what I want to do—rip it off of her.
But for all the wrong reasons.
“I let you into my room. I didn’t let you into my dresser.”
Luna looks down at herself self-consciously. “I’m sorry. I only have one pair of pajamas here and they’re in the laundry. I would have asked, but you weren’t here, and?—”
She stands up suddenly. The blanket drops to the floor around her feet, making it obvious she isn't wearing any pants. It’s not like she needs them. The shirt is massive on her. The hem falls somewhere around mid-thigh. I’m so fixated on the spot that it takes me a second to realize she’s walking towards me.
“What happened?” Luna breathes. She reaches for me but pulls back with a gasp. “Yakov, your face…”
Fuck.
I didn’t even look at myself when I got back in the car. Benjy’s single blow must have left a mark.
“I’m fine.”
“Your eye is purple. And your—Oh my god, Yakov. Your hands.” Luna doesn’t stop herself this time. She cradles my hand, her thumbs hovering just over the broken, bloodied skin. “If your knuckles look like this, I should probably be more worried about the other guy, huh?”
I pull my hands back. “Don’t bother. He’s not worth it.”
“But who?—”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
She crosses her arms, but doesn’t back away. Her mouth slants in annoyance. Then she points to the couch. “If you want to sit down, I’ll clean you up.”
