“Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re perfect right where you are.”
Kirill throws me his trademark smirk before stepping closer, sending the images of him lying on top of me last night surging to the forefront of my thoughts. I glare at him as menacingly as I can, then quickly look away, afraid he might see exactly where my head is at.
“Your prisoner is fine. You can go now,” I say bitterly, refusing to look him directly in his eyes.
“Fair enough. I just wanted to tell you that Dr. Sokolov will stop by later to change your bandages. You can ask him if you’re ready to be off bedrest then.”
“I don’t need a doctor to tell me what I already know. I’m perfectly fine,” I snap. “Besides, it’s just a flesh wound. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“No,” he says forcefully, clearly done with my bullshit as his fingers grip my chin and tilt my face up, giving me no choice but to meet his eyes. “It’s not a flesh wound. It’s a bullet wound. I know because I fished the bullet out of your body myself. And that type of injury is not to be taken lightly.”
My blood heats at the intensity in his eyes. “What I take seriously is the fact that I got shot because of your order.”
“I never told my men to shoot you,milaya,” he says, as if I’ve deeply offended him.
“No, you just told them to kidnap Frankie by any means necessary. If I got shot, then that’s on you.”
Kirill outscowls at me before finally releasing my chin and shifting his attention to Lucky.
“Frankie was looking for you downstairs. You should go to her.”
My brother hesitates to take orders from Kirill, mostly because he hates the idea of leaving me alone with the man who got me shot.
“Go.” I wave him off. “I can deal with this asshole on my own just fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say.
“She’s sure,” Kirill says in perfect, stupid chorus with me.
Lucky shoots us both a suspicious look before stepping out. Just like that, I’m alone again with the storm that is Kirill.Even though I try to look calm, steady, unbothered, my pulse is already pounding.
The silence that follows is so intense, I swear I could slice it with a butter knife. His gaze lingers, heavy enough to press against my skin, heating me in places that ache to be touched. When it becomes too much to withstand, I finally break the suffocating quiet between us.
“So, when is the good doctor coming?”
“He should be here in an hour or so.”
“Good. I’m eager for him to give me the all clear. It would be a shame if my first trip to Russia ended up being spent in bed instead of getting the lay of the land.”
“First time?” he asks, confused. “That would imply there will be a second. And we both know there won’t be.”
The way he says it—so final, so matter-of-fact—sends a little pang through my chest. Still, he’s right. I have no reason to return. No reason at all to pay his home a second visit. This… is all I’ll have.
“More reason to be annoyed, then, for being stuck in this bed the whole time.”
“You were sho—”
“I swear to God, Kill, if you say I was shot one more time, I’ll find a gun somewhere in this house and shoot you myself, just so you can be as fed up as I am when people keep repeating the same thing to you.”
Kirill’s laugh melts my irritation a little. He settles on the edge of the bed behind me, his hand drifting toward a strand of my hair before he stops himself and pulls back.
“If Dr. Sokolov says it’s alright, then I’ll personally give you the grand tour. How does that sound?”
“Shockingly, not awful,” I reply, turning toward him, my heart sinking when I notice the dark circles under his eyes.
How long has he been sleeping outside my door? Every night? Slouched on the floor just to make sure I was safe? What does that say about his family if he feels the need to take such precautions?
