“I also need food.”
That gets a brief pause. His hand presses flat over my stomach, as if verifying the claim himself. Right on cue, my stomach growls, and he actually laughs—a real laugh, rough and too pleased. It goes straight through me.
“That is humiliating,” I mutter.
“No,” he says, mouth brushing the side of my neck again. “That’s adorable.”
I scoff, scandalized. “Take that back.”
“Never.”
I elbow him lightly in the ribs, which has no real effect beyond making him laugh harder and kiss the side of my throat in what feels suspiciously like a reward for the attempt. It’s absurd. Entirely absurd. We are two men who have built empires out of blood and broken promises, and here I am in a ruined bed arguing with Nikolaj Dragovich because he called my stomach noises adorable.
God help me, I love him.
He must feel the shift in me, the way my body goes warm and helpless with it, because his laughter fades into something gentler. His nose brushes my temple, and his arm tightens once more.
“Stay,” he says.
The word is simple, almost childish. Not a command, but a request disguised in his usual roughness.
My heart does something embarrassing. “I can’t stay in bed forever.”
“Why not?”
“Because eventually, I’ll either die or bite you.”
“Both have appeal.”
I smile despite myself. “You’ve gotten needy.”
His silence this time is brief but telling. When he answers, his voice is lower. “I’m making up for lost time.”
There it is—the truth of him. He says it into my skin like he doesn’t want to look at me while he admits it, and that honesty makes my chest ache so hard I have to close my eyes for a second.
I twist carefully in his hold until I can get one arm up between us and turn enough to face him more fully. He loosens his grip only because he has to if he wants me to look at him. Even then, one hand stays firm against my waist like he doesn’t trust the movement.
I touch his face, and he stills instantly. “You don’t have to make up for anything right this second,” I say softly.
His eyes search mine with that same battered intensity they had last night, like he still can’t quite believe I’m here and answering him kindly. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“No,” he admits.
I smile and brush my thumb over the line of his mouth. “I’m not evaporating the second I stand up.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You taught me.”
That gets a laugh out of me again. “I definitely did not.”
His mouth curves. “You absolutely did.”
Then, because apparently even this small amount of softness has a time limit before he starts acting on every instinct he’s got, he turns his head and kisses the center of my palm before pulling me back against him one last time and burying his face at my throat like he needs one more minute of contact before he can let me go.
