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A few moments later, we were outside. Idling at the curb were two large SUVs, one I recognized as Zak’s even without Emil leaning against it. The other belonged to Kasimir. After saying a quick goodbye to Lennon and Daria, we were cruising down Atlantic Avenue, headed out of town. I must’ve fallen asleep at some point because the next thing I knew Zak was lifting me into his arms––bridal style––to carry me into the house. Between exhaustion and too much liquor, my protest was a slur of words.
“Icanwalk.”
“Hush. I’ve got you.”
He expertly weaved through the house, bypassing the elevator to climb the grand staircase, and opening my bedroom door, all without jostling me or losing his breath. The light from the hallway illuminated our path as he crossed the room and gently set me on the edge of my king-sized bed. Sleep was calling, but before I could answer, I had to deal with Mathilda. The annoying itch associated with phantom limb pain had begun to stir. Between that and the neuropathy, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide my discomfort for long.
On the nights when Zak had slept in my bed because of the nightmares, I was already under the covers. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen my stump before, but he’d never been present when I put on or took off my prosthetic. Somehow, it seemed more intimate than the kisses we’d shared.
Zak picked up on my hesitation. His next words were unexpected, alarming even. “Let me help, Pru. I want to learn how to take care of you. All of you. Especially the parts you’re afraid to share with me. Nothing is going to change how much I love you.”
I sobered instantly. “What?”
“Fuck. Forget I said that.”
“So you don’t love me?”
“Shit. Forget I said to forget I said that.” He raked his hands through his shoulder-length hair while pacing the floor. “Christ, I’m fucking this up.”
He loved me. Holy shit. Zakhar Vlaschenko––the usually reserved, six-foot-six powerhouse of a man––loved me. Not only that, he was losing his shit in the middle of my bedroom because he thought he screwed up. The whole scene was so outrageous, it was funny. Before I could stop myself, I snort-laughed. My hand flew to my mouth, trying to cover my blunder with a cough, but it was too late.
He heard. Zak spun on his heels, pinning me with his steely eyes. “You think watching me fall apart is funny?”
“No? Maybe?” I sputtered.
An instant later. I was flat on my back with his large frame straddling my thighs. His fingers tickled my sides mercilessly while I squirmed and howled until my stomach hurt. Only after I blurted I was going to puke did he finally relent. He toppled sideways onto the bed, dragging me into his side on the way down. As we laid there, his hand drew soothing circles on my back.
“I didn’t mean for the words to come out the way they did, but it doesn’t make them any less true.”
“Zak, I––”
He covered my lips with a finger. “Will you let me take care of you, moya koroleva?”
My breath hitched. Could I do it? He called me his queen, so why did I feel more like a joker? A queen was poised and confident, and I was neither. At least not since the kidnapping. I was sick and tired of living in the shadows of my previous life. Those days were gone the moment the surgeon took my leg. But I didn’t die in that warehouse or on the operating table, I was very much alive and breathing. The gorgeous man lying next to me was the reason I fought to survive. He saved me before and continued to do so with his unwavering support. Zak didn’t flinch at the sight of my stump, he reached out for it instead. If that wasn’t love, I didn’t know the meaning. No more hesitating. I was taking the leap.
“Okay.”
He pulled us both to a sitting position, eyeing me as if he thought I’d change my mind. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, tell me what to do.”
Zak knelt in front of me as I scooted to the edge of the bed and pulled my pants leg up past my knee. Taking his hand, I slid his fingers to the release button on the inside of the socket. It made a soft click when he pressed inward, unlocking the mechanism.
His voice was thick with emotion when he said, “Now what?”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the mattress as I gave him instructions on how to ease the prosthetic away, working it loose without pulling or twisting. He followed them to the letter, watching me for signs of discomfort the whole time. When it came free, he gently set it on the ground next to him as if it were something precious. Next, I walked him through removing the liner, making sure to roll it down rather than pull it off. Once my leg was completely bare, neither of us spoke.
He looked at me.
Not at my leg. Not at what was missing.
At me.
“You okay?”
The answer was surprisingly clear. I was more than okay. Instead of feeling helpless, vulnerable, he’d put me at ease with two words.
