CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ALEKSEI
She walksin ahead of me as we step into the house, dropping her keys in the dish by the door. When she faces me, her eyes are sharp as they scan me, landing on the dark stain spreading beneath my sweatshirt.
“Kitchen. Now.”
I lift a brow, mouth curving. “Are you giving me orders?”
“You’re bleeding and won’t see a doctor. I think it’s in my job description to at least try to stop you from dying.”
My gaze drops to her mouth, to the way her lips move when she takes charge. That authority in her voice does things to me I can barely contain. It takes everything in me not to spin her around and show her exactly what that tone does to me, right here against this wall.
“Stop looking at me like you’re two seconds from tearing my clothes off and get your ass in the kitchen so I can patch you up.”
My knuckles graze her jaw, lingering just long enough to feel the heat of her skin. “I like it when you get bossy, detka.”
She draws in a shaky breath, and my heart squeezes too damn hard from how much I need her.
“This is not happening,” she murmurs, peeling my hand off her. “Now be a good boy and listen to your wife for once.”
My God, what she does to me.
I follow her into the kitchen, watching the way her hips sway, already picturing how she’ll look with her hands pressed to the countertop and my name like a song from her lips. I ease into the kitchen chair as she moves across the room, disappearing into the hallway closet and coming back with the first aid kit, already snapping on gloves.
“You’re my nurse now?”
She doesn’t even look at me as she sets the kit on the table. “Someone has to be. It’s obvious you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself.”
A low laugh rumbles out of me. “Is that right?”
She steps between my legs, standing so close I can smell the faint trace of her perfume.
I dip my head, brushing my mouth near her ear. “Tell me what else I can’t be trusted with, moya ptichka.”
She freezes. Just for a second. But it’s enough to know she felt it too.
She dabs hydrogen peroxide on the cut and winces. “You need stitches.”
“Much to your disappointment, I will live. Just clean it.”
Something passes in her eyes, like maybe the idea of me dying doesn’t please her as much as I thought. Wordlessly, she grabs antiseptic, cotton pads, and gauze, then gets to work. Her hands are careful and firm as she presses against the wound, and all I can think is that I would take a hundred more hits just to feel her touch me like this again.
“This will leave a nasty scar.”
“Add it to the rest.”
She pauses, eyes on mine, like there is something she wants to say, but she can’t figure out how.
Is she wondering about the scars on my chest? Does she want to know how I got them?
Would I tell her?
Maybe I would, because a part of me does not want to hide myself from her anymore.
Once she finishes with the bandage, she steps back, arms crossing over her chest. “Hopefully you’re still alive by the morning.”
“I’m deeply moved that you seem to care so much.”
