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“Now we talk,” he says in a dark voice, all but dragging me to the door.
“Wait.” I dig my heels in. “I have to wash my hands.”
He lets me, but the minute I’m done, he steers me to the nearest room and pushes me inside. It’s one of the lounges close to the dining room. I walk to the center of the floor, creating some distance. He’s unreasonably angry, and I’m upset. We both need space to cool down.
Watching me with gleaming blue eyes, he closes the door and turns the key.
The act makes my pulse jump. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t like it when you touch my men,” he says, advancing on me.
I crane my neck to meet his gaze when he stops so close our bodies almost touch. “It’s my job.”
His jaw bunches. “Not here it’s not.”
“I touch many men on a daily basis in New York,” I say with barely suppressed frustration.
A muscle ticks in his temple. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
I prop my hands on my hips. “You never said it bothered you.”
“As I said, that doesn’t mean I liked it.”
“This is ridiculous. There’s a difference between a caregiver’s touch and an intimate touch. You get that, don’t you?”
He gives me a hard smile. “It makes no difference to me what kind of touch it is. I don’t want your hands on them.” His voice lowers with dangerous intent. “And if I catch their hands on you, I’ll chop them off.”
Anger bursts through my veins, heating my skin. “I love my job. I’m good at it. You said so yourself. If you have a problem with my job, it’s going to be a problem for us, and I mean a real problem.” I add with emphasis, “A make-or-break problem.”
“I do admire your skill and dedication.” His words are softly spoken, but there’s an edge to them. “I admire the profession you’ve chosen, and I respect your decisions. I’m not telling you that you can’t do what you love. What I’m telling you, Katyusha, is that I don’t like to share. I’ll never like your hands on another man’s naked torso or dick, no matter how professional the intention.”
“You’re jealous,” I say, startled to realize just how much.
“Exactly.” He splays a palm over my lower back, tugging me against him while he slips his free hand under the hem of my skirt to cup my sex. “This”—he squeezes—“belongs to me.” Flicking my clit softly, he continues in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “Only to me.”
A spark travels from my groin to my belly, but I can’t let him sidetrack me with lust.
“No.” I push on his chest.
He regards me with a mixture of surprise, anger, and disbelief, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.
“We’re not done talking.” I grip his wrist and pull his hand out from under my skirt. “I’m not going to cheat on you. That’s not my style. But I’m not taking orders from you.” I point at the locked door. “If you can’t accept that, you may as well walk through that door now. My job isn’t up for discussion.”
A quiet storm builds in his eyes. “Your job isn’t the issue.”
“Then what is?”
“My men,” he bites out. “You’re beautiful. They’re horny. Put two and two together, and what do you get?”
“If you don’t trust them, trust me.”
Clenching his jaw, he says, “You’re asking too much of me, Katerina.”
I back up a step. “Is trust too much to ask?”
He stabs his fingers through his hair. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about not wanting them to enjoy your touch a little too much.” The blue of his eyes turns cold. “If one of those motherfuckers gets an erection from looking at you, I’ll chop off more than his hands.”
“Alex, please. Stepan was in pain. I can promise you, turned on was the last thing he would’ve been while I was stitching him up.”
“Just as well,” he says, biting off every word.
I drop my hands to my sides. “I can’t believe you. While we’re talking about trust, why didn’t you tell me you were training with your men?”
He frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re training with knives, for crying out loud.”
“Yes,” he says, as if it should’ve been obvious.
“Someone got hurt today. You could get hurt.”
“The point of training with actual weapons is making sure we don’t get hurt.”
“In a real fight, you mean,” I say, hovering between anger and concern.
He closes the distance between us. “Precisely.” Hooking a curl behind my ear, he asks with a quirk of his lips, “Are you worried about me?”
“Of course I am,” I say incredulously.
“Don’t be. I know how to take care of myself.”
“Then don’t be jealous,” I deadpan.
Folding his hand around my nape, he pulls me closer. “Are you saying you won’t worry if I won’t be jealous?”
