“Then go.”
“My legs…”
Dmitri chuckled—low and wicked—and then I heard movement behind me. He padded over to me and lifted me from the bed like I weighed nothing.
“I can walk!” I protested, smacking his shoulder.
“Not from what I can tell.” He kissed my forehead and walked into the bathroom. He sat me on the toilet like I was something delicate. Then walked to the other side of the room where he began running water into a tub. The tub faucets roared to life. Hot steam curled upward. My eyes drifted to him in the mirror.
Bare. Broad-backed. Covered in faint red crescents from my nails. He looked like sin sculpted into a man.
I cleared my throat. “A bath?”
“You need it,” he said without turning around. “And I want you clean before I touch you again.”
I froze, heat pooling low in my stomach.
“Again?” My voice cracked.
He finally faced me. The look he gave me was pure possession—dark, heavy, certain.
“Princess,” he said, stepping closer, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, “I didn’t spend seven years starving to stop after one night.”
The bath filled behind him, water steaming, and he leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossing over his chest as he looked at me—naked, sore, sitting on his toilet because I literally couldn’t walk.
His lips twitched. “Finish in there,” he murmured. “Then I’m bathing you. And after that…” His gaze dragged over my body with slow, devouring intent. “…I’ll decide if you get any rest.”
My breath hitched. Because I knew. Dmitri wasn’t done with me. Not even close.
I finished on the toilet, my face was still hot with embarrassment even though Dmitri didn’t treat it like anything but normal. He didn’t rush me. Didn’t look away either. Just stood there like a dark sentinel, waiting. When I was done, he lifted me again—because my legs really weren’t going to cooperate—and lowered me into the steaming bath. The moment my body hit the water, a broken sound escaped me.
“Ah—God…”
The heat seeped into my muscles, into every place he had taken me, into the soreness that throbbed deep and insistent. Goosebumps rose across my skin even as the warmth enveloped me. Dmitri knelt beside the tub and watched my face like he was memorizing each reaction.
“That feel better?” he murmured.
“Yes,” I whispered, sinking down until the water kissed my collarbones. “It feels so good.”
He dipped a bowl into the water and poured it slowly over my shoulders, over my chest, over the tops of my breasts—deliberate, reverent, like he was washing something precious.
“Good,” he said, his voice thickening. “You deserve it.”
I blinked at him. “You’re being sweet.”
He huffed a dark laugh. “Don’t confuse this with sweet, princess. I’m taking care of what’s mine.”
My stomach flipped.
When he finished washing me—hair, neck, shoulders, arms, legs—he lifted me again. Wrapped me in a thick towel. Carried me back to the bed like a man transporting something sacred.And I let him. Because I couldn’t do anything else. Because I didn’t want to.
He laid me down gently, poured oil onto my skin, and massaged me from head to toe. Dmitri worked my muscles until they hummed, and my eyes became so heavy that I drifted to sleep. I faintly remember him tucking the blankets around me, and pressed a kiss to my temple before disappearing from the room. I must’ve drifted off again because the next thing I smelled was food. Warm. Savory. Mouthwatering.
My eyes cracked open. Dmitri was coming toward the bed with a tray. Breakfast in bed. I moved to sit up, and he put the tray on the table before coming over and putting pillows behind me for support. Then he set the tray across my lap and sat beside me, one leg on the mattress, one on the floor, leaning close enough that his heat seeped into me. There were eggs—soft and creamy—toast, fruit, avocado, yogurt, and a glass of water.
“Let’s get you fed,” he said simply.
“I can feed myself,” I murmured.
