“I thought I told you to leave.”
“You did. But then I remembered something.”
“What, Kill?” I snap, irritated. “What did you remember?”
“That we’re not in Chicago anymore. I’m the one giving orders here.”
“Good luck with that,” I mumble, rolling my eyes.
The room goes silent again, and I force myself not to look in his direction.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, his voice softer now.
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“No.”
“Are you still angry at me?”
“What do you think?” I counter sarcastically.
“Any idea when you’ll stop being angry at me?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Kill… maybe when my fucking shoulder doesn’t hurt like a bitch when I move.”
“Kill,” he muses. “You can’t be that mad at me if you’re calling me that.”
“How about asshole? Am I angry now?”
Kirill’s soft chuckle loosens the knot in my chest when it has absolutely no right to. And when I hear him push up from his seat and move toward me, I don’t say anything to stop him either.
“Can I lie beside you?” he asks quietly from behind me.
“It’s your house. Apparently, I can’t say no to anything here.”
“You can always say no.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hating how I don’t have the will to say that one simple word. Kirill takes my silence for consent and gently lifts the covers, then lies behind me.
“Don’t touch me, Kill. I mean it,” I warn, finally finding my wrath.
“Understood.”
But what good is it telling him not to touch me, when I can still feel him everywhere? His presence. His warmth. His quiet breath. Wrapping around me like an invisible embrace. Ugh.
“I never wanted you to get hurt,” he whispers once he’s made sure I’m not going to kick him out of the bed.
“So you keep repeating.”
“I have to repeat it because you don’t believe me.”
“Fine,” I blurt out in aggravation. “You never meant to hurt me. Big whoop. Your men still shot me. Still kidnapped me under your orders. It changes nothing about what you intended, only whatactuallyhappened. Haven’t you ever heard that the road to hell is paved with good intentions?”
“You’re right,” he says, the words thick with remorse.
Though I told him not to touch me, I can still feel his fingers lightly brush the ends of my hair, as if he can’t help himself.
