I might need to go sit by the toilet again.
Violated.
That’s the word Mikhail used. It rings true with my emotions. The fucker snuck something into my body. He stripped me of my autonomy, and he would’ve done so much more had he gotten the chance.
It might make me a horrible person, but I feel neither remorse for his implied death, nor trepidation over the man sitting at my feet being the one to carry it out.
I feel…fuck,I feel vindicated.
I suck a breath to the very bottom of my lungs, waiting until they burn from sweet oxidation to release it. My head empties of fears I didn’trealize weighed on me. Fears of an average, boring man with shit-stain eyes turning into a monster above me. Touching me. Invading me.
Maybe I’m a monster for feeling this way—for being grateful he’s dead. I’ve had my share of monsters, but no one’s ever eliminated one for me before.
I settle back against the pillows, a small smile spreading across my face. Mikhail remains still at the foot of the bed, a sentinel watching over me.
The satisfaction coursing through me should disturb me more than it does.
What does it mean that it doesn’t?
Mikhail
I’m so fucked.
The little creature has the most fascinating reactions, and I find myself enamored with every single breath and each fluttering smile. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve built an empire on cold calculation, yet here I am, watching the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks like some lovesick teenager. I’ve never bothered worrying about how others thought of me and my lifestyle, but anxiety raced through my nerves the entire time she sat in front of me, processing my violent confession.
After what feels like a lifetime, the corner of her lips lifts in decisive resolve, and then the pretty thing looks up at me with gratitude etched in her eyes, a calm smile on her face.
God, she’s perfect.
The relief that crashes through me is unsettling—when did I start caring so desperately about one person’s opinion?
Part of me wondered if she’d run screaming from me the second she awoke, if she was still as scared of me as she was at the club. The thoughtof her fear, of losing her before I even had her, made something twist in my chest. I had been hovering outside the bedroom door, checking in with my men, when I heard the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom. The sound wrecked me. I hate that she feels bad just as much as I hated the terror I saw searing her eyes in the late hours of the night.
I solemnly take on the events to my unending conscience. She’ll never feel like that ever again. Not if I can help it.
“That night…” She starts, but trails off. Then her fingers lift to brush the scar on my chest, just as she did in the club.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I don’t dare move, remaining as still as I can manage, afraid that even breathing wrong will make her pull away. It’s such an unfamiliar feeling to me, seeking out the touch of another, needing it like oxygen. When her skin makes contact with mine, I can feel a web of contentment spreading across the surface of my chest, and it terrifies me how desperately I want to trap her hand there, to never let her stop touching me.
“I’m glad you made it,” she finishes, her pale cheeks brightening in a soft flush.
It’s fucking adorable, and I’m losing my goddamn mind over it.
Her words carry more meaning than she realizes. I can’t remember the last time someone told me that—if anyone ever has. My people are so used to the violence, to the risk that hangs over our necks day and night, doomed to cut the life from our souls at any given moment.
But this slip of a girl is glad I survived.
The warmth that spreads through my chest is foreign and addictive.
“All thanks to you, Menace. I was ready to meet my maker right then and there if you hadn’t found me.” I say, experimentally pressing my palm to her thigh. The warmth of her skin simmers under the fabric of the borrowed sweats, and my hand covers nearly the entirety of the extremity, reminding me how small and vulnerable she is.
Was.Shewasvulnerable. Now she’s got me at her back, and I know I’m not going to let anyone touch one soft curly hair on her head.
Disappointment aches through me as she finishes her examination of my old wound and retrieves her hand, slipping back into her cocoon of blankets. I have to resist the urge to reach out and pull her back to me. I wonder if she’s realized yet that it’s my bed she’s so adorably taken ownership of. The thought of her scent on my sheets, of her warmth lingering in my space, sends a thrill through me that I don’t want to examine too closely.
“You need to come get your gun. I don’t like having it in my closet, it makes me nervous.” She says, cocking her brow playfully.
Another laugh slips out of me before I even realize it. When’s the last time I’ve laughed this much? She has me unraveling with every smile.
