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“Yes, sir?”
“Drop the innocent tone, and don’t fuck with me.” His hand flexes on my throat.
I have this weird sensation that I’m caught in the web of a lethal spider. No, maybe I’m trapped in the lion’s den.
“What did I tell you before I agreed to bring you with me?”
“My life is yours.” I speak without difficulty, but I can feel his hand on my throat with every word.
“That’s right. It’s mine.” He digs his thumb into my pulse point. “So when I tell you not to throw it away, you fucking listen.”
“I won’t. If you’re not in danger.”
I can see the shadow falling over his features, and I’m not sure if he’ll snap my neck or squeeze it to death.
For a moment, he goes for the second. His grip tightens, and I’m robbed of oxygen in a swift movement.
But then he lets go as fast as he grabbed me. “Go.”
“How about your wound?” I realize I’m speaking breathily, almost too much so.
“Are you a doctor now?”
“No, but I can get you one.”
He narrows his eyes for a fraction of a second before they revert back to normal.
“Let me try to stop the bleeding first. Do you have a first aid kit somewhere?”
He nods down the hall and starts walking that way without paying me any attention. I end up following anyway because his wound is dripping on the hallway carpet and definitely ruining it.
Once we reach the last door, he pushes it open and slips inside, then switches on the light.
A large room with an en-suite bathroom comes into view. There’s a black leather seating area and a king-size bed on a high platform, but otherwise, it’s too sterile-looking.
Kirill sits on the bed and juts his chin to the side. “It’s in the bathroom. Make it quick.”
I nod and rush inside, then fetch the kit and come back. My feet falter when I find him unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing the hard ridges of his muscles before throwing it to the side.
There’s no doubt that Kirill’s physique was sculpted by a god. He’s not too bulky, nor too lean, but he has a perfect eight-pack and wide shoulders that fit his height.
Various tattoos swirl around his biceps and sides, giving him a darker edge. They’re different in shape and form, ranging from a skull to a gun, a knife, birds, and snakes.
It’s like his body is a map for these haunting images.
He places both hands on the bed and leans against them. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
I blink twice, then jog forward and nearly drop the kit in my haste. Through it all, Kirill watches me with no change in his expression, like a damn robot.
I try not to ogle his physique and tattoos as I sit beside him and start cleaning the wound. He doesn’t whine, wince, or express any discomfort, but then again, I didn’t expect him to.
Silence falls between us, short of any noise I make with my extremely careful movements. Despite my best efforts to act natural, I’m in a state of hyperawareness. My skin tingles, and my ears are so sensitive that they feel hotter with each passing second.
I’m almost sure it’s due to being in this setting with Kirill. Maybe I should’ve let him get a doctor and deal with the wound on his own, after all.
“Why do your family members hate you?” I blurt to dissolve the tension, then follow up with, “If you don’t mind telling me, of course.”
“Why does anyone hate? You’d probably have to ask them that.”
