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It’s official. I’m a fucking savage.
There’s no longer any doubt in my mind.
She chews on her plump lower lip, making me want to do the same. “I’m not—”
“You should fix that.” At her blank look, I growl, “The flowers. They’re crushed.”
She blinks and glances down, as if only now realizing they’re still in her hand. “Right.” She steps back unsteadily. “Let me do that.”
She kneels to gather the few straggly flowers that grow along this path, and I turn away, taking deep breaths. By the time she calls my name again, I have myself under control. Mostly.
Turning back to face her, I smooth out my expression. “Let’s go.”
She starts toward me with a limp, and I grit my teeth as I swoop in, lifting her off her feet. Self-control issues or not, I’m not letting her hike back on her own.
Holding her tightly against my chest, I lengthen my stride until I’m almost running. She stays silent, though she must hear my breathing pick up from exertion. There’s no more teasing about macho men, no more protests about how she can walk by herself. She doesn’t want to draw attention to herself, and it’s just as well.
My restraint is hanging on by a thread.
It’s only when we’re approaching the house that she speaks. “Thank you,” she says quietly, forcing me to meet her gaze—something I’ve avoided the entire trip back. “I really do appreciate it.”
“Of course. Happy to help.” My tone is casual, calm, as if we’re discussing taking her to gather the flowers. But we both know we’re not.
What she’s grateful for is the fact that I didn’t fuck her—that for now, she gets to keep her walls up and pretend.
14
Chloe
As soon as Nikolai deposits me in my room, I go looking for Alina. I find her in the kitchen, chatting with Lyudmila, and I give her the flowers, along with the birthday congratulations.
“Thank you.” She accepts the bouquet with a beaming smile. “Where on earth did you get these? They’re so pretty.”
I smile back. “Oh, just around here.”
“Really? With your ankle this way?”
My cheeks heat at the memory of what almost happened in the forest. “Nikolai might’ve helped.”
Her smile dims slightly, but she doesn’t say anything to me. Instead, she turns to Lyudmila, who’s chopping up some veggies by the sink, and speaks a few words of Russian to her. The blond woman bustles off to fill a pretty vase with water, and Alina arranges the flowers in it before taking it out to the dining room, where it joins the other bouquet decorating the table.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, following her there. The table is already set with a variety of appetizers; it looks like it’s going to be an extra-fancy lunch today. “Any more headaches?”
“I should be asking you that.” She faces me, her jade eyes gleaming. “How’s your arm? Your ankle?”
“All better.” The ankle not so much right now—I’ve definitely overdone it today—but I keep quiet about that.
“I’m glad.” She hesitates, then asks quietly, “Have you spoken to Nikolai?”
My pulse quickens. “He’s told me about Slava and the Leonovs.” Is she about to tell me more? Has she decided to reveal the full story after all?
Her face takes on a sphinxlike expression. “I see.”
I guess the answer is no. I’m tempted to press her, but I don’t want to bring up a traumatic topic on her birthday—though it could be argued she’s just brought it up herself.
“Do you want to hang out tonight after dinner?” I ask impulsively. “Maybe play some board games, grab a couple of beers? Obviously, Lyudmila’s welcome too.”
My offer is only partially motivated by my desire to probe for more information. Mostly, I just want to get to know Alina better, as I’m starting to really like her.
She looks startled but quickly recovers. Flashing me a warm smile, she says, “That sounds great. Let’s see how long the dinner lasts, and then we’ll decide what to do.”
* * *
Since I’m already downstairs, I join everyone for lunch instead of having Nikolai feed me in my room. Not only am I feeling well enough to resume being a functional adult, but after what nearly happened in the forest, being alone with Nikolai feels like a dangerous undertaking—especially next to a bed.
I’m certain he only stopped because he was worried about hurting my arm, something that would be way less of a concern if it were comfortably arranged on a pillow.
My heart hammers faster at the thought, and I sneak a glance at him from under my lashes. I can still feel his lips devouring mine, can still taste his warm, minty breath. My nipples feel overly sensitive, and my lower lip throbs where he’d bitten it, the pulsations echoing deep into my core.
I want him. And not in a casual, would-be-nice-to-have way. Even knowing what he is, I crave him so desperately it’s like a sickness, an addiction as unhealthy and dangerous as a heroin user’s dependence. I have no willpower around him, no ability to resist his touch. By all rights, he should terrify and repulse me, but instead, I’m drawn to him as much as, if not more than, before.
