Page 76 of The Beast of Moscow

“Vera!”

The guttural shout of her name sent Vera scrambling off the floor toward the direction that it came. Inside the shower’s stall. She had to step over his pile of sopping wet clothes that he’d thrown out at some point, and the darkness made it hard for her to see the ledge stepping up into the shower.

She nearly tripped on it.

The only light inside the shower came from the waterproof, digital wall panel controlled by touch. The screen apparently didn’t sleep, but he didn’t complain about the glow. He’d damn near roared about shutting off the overhead lights, though.

At the far end of the five-foot long shower stall that was wide enough for two people to stand comfortable side by side, Vaslav sat with his back against the tiles on a bench made of bamboo that had been built into the wall. Just out of full reach of the steady sprays of water from the heads in the shower’s middle. With one foot tucked under the bench a bit and his other leg out straight, a hand towel, soaked with water, was all that offered him privacy.

Vera hesitated just inside the stall, before the spray of water.

He stared up at her, gaze open and clear. At least, there was that. His one eye remained tightly shut, making his already expressive eyebrows even more severe as he watched her.

“You need something?” she asked.

He was in pain; she understood that, now. He was still one hell of a sight there. A fit, tall body made of defined muscles covered in various tattoos. From stars on his knees, to onion domed spires on his chest. Despite being covered to an extent, the wet towel did extraordinarily little to hide the outline of his flaccid penis, and when she averted her eyes a bit higher, it was only to land on the dark dusting of hair that trailed up his toned stomach to his navel.

How could she not look?

She had never even seen the man in anything less than slacks and a dress shirt; not that he was concerned with her staring.

Vaslav barely gave her time to appreciate the sight of him, anyway. “Come here—do that thing again.”

“What?”

“In the car,” he told her. “It helped with your fingers. Come here and do that.”

She stiffened on the spot at the way he hissed the final words at her. If someone else spoke to her like that, with enough venom to burn on contact, she would have walked away; it was only because she didn’t think he even understood the way he sounded when he was in pain that stopped her from doing exactly that—leaving him there.

It helped to be touched.

That’s what he didn’t want to say. Because the only thing Vera had done in the ride to the apartment was stroke his scalp while his head was in her lap.

She couldn’t refuse him at all when he let out a hard breath and said, “Please.”

The temperature of the hot water only stung Vera for a few seconds before she could stand it, and by the time she was kneeling on the floor between Vaslav’s opened legs reaching for his face, she was fine.

Soaked again, but fine.

“Could we at least call Igor?”

“It’s just migraines,” he told her quietly as she dragged her manicured nails through the wet strands of his hair, and he turned his scarred cheek to face her while he stared at the shower wall.

Vera’s hands stilled, and while she tried to meet his gaze, he outright avoided hers. She couldn’t help but think he wasn’t telling her the truth. Those who had nothing to hide, hid nothing. Wasn’t that how the saying went?

“Or is it more than just migraines? I mean, this is twice I’ve seen you have a—”

Without warning, the side of his fisted hand slammed down to the bamboo bench. The action stopped her prodding, but as if he’d done nothing at all, Vaslav said, “It used to be just migraines.”

“So, what is it now?”

Vaslav swallowed hard, but she realized his problem before he even admitted it. “I don’t really know.”

23.

“Just tell me where it is.”

“I’ll get it, I said,” Vas hissed back to Vera in reply.