He gave me one slow, unimpressed blink. “I didn’t ask.”
Then he cut a piece of toast, dipped it into the eggs, and held it near my mouth.
My cheeks warmed. I felt my pride war with the melting feeling inside my chest. But he waited. He was patient and so sure. So, I opened my mouth. He slid the bite between my lips, watching me like my chewing was erotic.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
Heat shot through me so fast I choked on a breath.
He smirked, grabbed a berry, and held it up.
“Again.”
I opened my mouth without thinking that time.
He fed me slowly. Deliberately. Like each bite belonged to him first. Like I was something to savor. Between bites, hebrushed hair from my face, stroked his knuckle down my jaw, murmured little praises that made my stomach tighten.
My body was still wrecked. Still sore. Still his. And he acted like carrying me, bathing me, feeding me wasn’t kindness—wasn’t romance—wasn’t softness. It was possession. And God help me. I didn’t hate it. In fact, it was making me view Dmitri in an entirely different light. After I was finished, I fell back asleep. Too tired to fight the pull.
I woke to voices. Low, hushed, too close.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize the ceiling above me. Or the scent on the sheets. Or the thick ache tugging deep between my thighs. Then everything rushed back—heat, desperation, Dmitri’s mouth, his hands —
I sucked in a breath.
God. My body felt... wrecked. In ways I’d expected and in ways I definitely hadn’t. My neck protested when I tried to turn it. My right shoulder throbbed sharply, a pinpoint of pain that hadn’t been there last night. Or maybe I’d been too distracted to notice it.
The voices outside my room dipped for a moment, then rose again. A door shut. Footsteps. Then a knock.
“Natasha.” Dmitri’s voice—low, controlled, but careful. “I’m coming in.”
I didn’t even get a chance to answer before the door cracked open and he stepped inside, filling the space like a storm dressed in a T-shirt and joggers. His eyes swept over me instantly—assessing, checking, cataloging.
His brow pinched. “You’re hurting.” It wasn’t a question.
I swallowed. “I’m just sore. It’s?—”
“No.” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Some of that is me. But some isn’t.” He exhaled, frustrated at himself, at the situation—I couldn’t tell. “I noticed a few tender spots when I massaged you last night. Your shoulder especially. I didn’t like how you reacted when I touched it.”
I blinked. “You massaged me?”
“Yes.” His expression darkened. “You were out of it, little one. You needed it.”
Heat flashed through me for reasons that had nothing to do with arousal. Before I could ask anything, he continued.
“I called someone. A doctor. She’s already here.”
“She?” I echoed.
“Of course she.” His stare hardened at the implication that he’d bring a man anywhere near me right now. “She needs to check your shoulder and neck. Make sure nothing from the accident caused real harm.”
My stomach tightened. “Is it that serious?”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t soften the truth. “And I’m not guessing with your health.”
Another knock sounded lightly on the doorframe.
A woman stepped halfway inside—mid-forties, dark curls pulled back, wearing scrubs and a steady, reassuring expression. She gave me a polite smile.
