Page 60 of Rough Exile


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He came up behind me and hovered there a moment before opening a drawer and handing me a folded shirt.

“What’s this for?”

“To cover yourself.”

“It’s not cold in here.”

“It’s for me, not you.”

“Why? Is my naked body ugly to you? I know you’re used to men’s bodies. A naked woman must look strange to you.”

He shook his head, looking shy and amused. “I’ve never seen a woman as beautiful as you.”

I turned to face him. He was struggling not to let his gaze drop from my face to my breasts. “You’re welcome to look, Ilya. You can even touch if you like. Or bite—just not too hard, okay?”

His hungry gaze lowered, devouring me. He raised a shaking hand and brushed a knuckle over my already pebbled nipple.

“You’ve seen my breasts several times. What’s the big deal?”

“There’s no one to stop me. I could do anything to you—make you scream with pleasure or with pain—and no one would hear.” He withdrew his hand and gazed into my eyes. “It’s too much trust to place in a man. What makes me any better than the one who attacked you in the park?”

“You’re not like him. You’d stop if I asked you to.” I smiled up at him, watching him struggle with his conscience. “I’m here voluntarily…for whatever you want, short of maiming me or killing me.” I put my hands behind my back, offering my breasts to him.

He threw the shirt on his dresser.

“Phew. I thought you were really going to make me put on a shirt.”

“Take off the rest.” He leaned in and brushed his lips against mine before pulling away.

I turned my back on him and perused his bookshelves. “No.”

When he didn’t say anything, I peeked over my shoulder. He was frowning, apparently not sure what he should do with my refusal.

Well, if he didn’t know, I wasn’t going to tell him yet.

I strolled to his bedside table and pulled a notebook from the top of a pile. When I flipped it open, I expected him to pull it from my hand, but he let me do it.

Damn. It was in Russian.

“You didn’t tell me you wrote your journals in secret code.”

He grinned. “You Americans are always trying to steal our secrets, so I wrote my journals in Russian so you wouldn’t understand, years before we even met.”

“That was good foresight.”

“Thank you. I thought so.”

I kept flipping, and he tried to grab the book from my hand, but I danced out of reach. Obviously, if he was still trying to get it away from me, there must be something good in it.

He made a noise of exasperation but let me keep flipping pages.

There were rough sketches of Bron with words underneath I couldn’t read. Several were just of his face.

“Does he read these?”

“No. He wouldn’t care. It’s sentimental drivel.”

I flipped through to the back and was about to close it when I caught sight of something else. I’d passed the picture, but when I flipped back a few pages, there was a sketch of me sleeping.

It was lovingly done, making me look like a princess frozen by a spell rather than the messy sleeper I’d always thought I was.

The jig was up.

Arching a brow, I glanced at him.

“When did you do this one?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe three weeks ago?”

”Is this from memory?”

He paused long enough that I could guess his answer. “No.”

I…wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “You sat in my room and sketched me while I was sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“I would have woken up.”

I thought I woke up every time they came to my room.

“You sleep deeply.”

Had they done things to me that I’d slept through? “No, I don’t.”

“You do.” He said earnestly. “Very, very deeply.”

Rat.

“And you sneak in and draw me.”

“I have.”

“And have you done anything else to me?”

He gave me a quiet smile but didn’t answer. Instead, he went to the bookcase and absently picked up a carving, turning it over in his hand like a stress ball.

“Did you make those?”

“Yes. I taught myself how when I was a boy. They’re not very good, but they were a way to pass the time.”

“Were?”

“There’s no reason to spend my time carving when there is a beautiful woman here to cheat me at cards.”

“Just because you’re terrible at cards doesn’t mean I cheat.” I put my hand out for the carving. He passed it to me, and I examined the unpainted seal and all its minute details. “I guess you’ll have time to do more art when I go home.”

He shrugged. “If.”

Frowning, I handed the seal back. “What do you mean?”

“If you go back. You could choose to stay.”

I blinked at him. “Stay here?”

“Yes. With us.”

Thoughts of my family crowded in. The kids were older now and didn’t really need me, but my parents still expected me to help at the store, and they needed me to take care of the house. I couldn’t simply call them and tell them I wasn’t coming back—walk away from my whole life. And what about school? I’d had plans, vague as they were.

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