“She’s not very smart.” But there’s no real heat in his reply.
An overwhelming torrent of emotion—sharp, painful, and utterly reckless—washes over me. I can’t name or contain it. The feeling rises from some place I didn’t know existed, and its complexity threatens to drown me.
I bend down to pet Pixie, grazing my fingers along her back and getting a closer inspection of her paw. She leans into my touch, purring despite her ordeal. Her familiar motor anchors me. I focus on the solid reality of her presence while trying to ignore the man standing just a few feet away.
But I can’t. Not anymore.
Still crouched, I glance up at him. His expression is a mask of harsh indifference, all traces of the earlier fractures carefully hidden. But I still see the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the weariness that goes beyond physical fatigue.
His gaze, as flat and cold as ever, meets mine. Like he’s daring me to acknowledge what he’s done.
To show weakness.
Before I can second-guess myself, I rise and cross the distance between us. Each step is monumental, like passing a boundary I can never uncross.
His eyes narrow as I approach.
I stop when I’m close enough to smell the leather of his jacket and his subtle musk and evergreen scent, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. I lift my hand, slowly, deliberately, and flatten it against the solid wall of his chest. His heart slams against my palm. A betrayal of the control his face maintains.
His gaze slides down to my hand, then back to my face. His blue eyes darken. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Thank you.” The words are inadequate, but they’re all I have to offer.
His cool, assessing eyes bore into mine. Dangerous heat simmers beneath the surface, stealing my breath.
His hand covers mine, fingers cuffing my wrist in a painless but unyielding grip disguised as a caress. Beneath my palm, his heart continues its rhythmic beat while my own heart races out of control.
“You think you get to decide when this happens?” His voice rumbles against my skin. “When you touch me?”
“I…”
The answer dies in my throat. My fingertips tingle where they touch his chest, the cotton shirt the only barrier between my skin and his. I should pull away. Flee. Remember who he is,what he’s done, and why I’m here. But I remain frozen, caught in the gravity of his presence.
“You don’t thank me with a touch,lyubimaya.” The Russian endearment flows through me like vodka-spiked honey. “You thank me witheverything.”
The implication hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Everything. All of me. My compliance. My surrender. My body. My will.
I should be terrified. Outraged, even. Instead, a treacherous heat blooms low in my belly and fans outward until my skin is too tight. Too sensitive. His thumb traces small circles on the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point. Can he feel how it races? How my body betrays me with each quickened beat?
He gives me a chance to retreat, to break the spell and save myself from whatever’s about to happen.
I don’t move.
Can’t move.
The choice slips through my fingers.
Then he bends his head, but it’s nothing like the way he did hours ago. No bruising force, or angry demand, or punishment disguised as passion. This time, he lifts his free hand. Scarred knuckles graze my jawline. With an almost reverent, featherlight touch, he tilts my face up to his.
I stare into his lust-glazed eyes, scouring for…what? Compassion? Humanity? Some sign that the man who saved my cat, who shielded me from bullets, is real and not just another manipulation?
His gaze reveals nothing.
He drops his hand, releases my wrist, and seals his mouth over mine.
The kiss is slow, precise, and methodical in its gentleness. No hands. Only our lips touch. He maps my mouth like he’s memorizing the shape with his careful attention.
He kisses me like I’m some precious treasure that might break.
