OnlyIget to break her. OnlyIget to make her come undone.
Nu blyat.
Raking a hand through my hair, I mutter under my breath as I stalk toward her kitchen.
Behind me, she says dryly, “My God, I’m never getting rid of you, am I?”
I don’t bother looking back. “Not until you’re dead, moya ptichka. And not then either. Because heaven or hell, I’ll find you.”
Her muttered curse from behind me makes me grin, the sound like music—angry, indignant music, but music all the same.
I grab a clean dishcloth and soak it in warm water, watching it darken in my fist. When I return, she’s sitting stiffly, legs stretched out, arms crossed like a shield. Her eyes are sharp, guarded, but something in them flickers when I kneel in front of her. Like she’s not sure whether to run or breathe me in.
I take her ankle, resting it over my bent knee. She flinches when my fingers skim up the delicate line of bone.
“Relax, detka.” My voice is a whisper meant just for her.
She swallows hard, throat bobbing, but she doesn’t pull away. And when our eyes meet, everything slows. The time, my heartbeats, the world around me. It all ceases.
I should hate her. Idohate her. But right now, it doesn’t feel too much like hate.
It’s like possession. Like punishment wrapped in desire. Like my darkness has finally found a home in hers.
She’s the enemy. She’s everything I swore I would destroy. And still, I want to bury myself so deep inside her that neither of us remembers who is in control.
I press the warm cloth to her foot, gently wiping away blood and dirt. Her skin’s scraped raw in places. Nothing deep, but it still carves a hole in my chest. Guilt gnaws at the edges of my control. A feeling I thought was long dead…if I ever had it to begin with.
I’ve ended lives without a second thought. Buried men without a trace of regret. But with her? All it takes is a scratch.
Her breathing changes, shallow and uneven. Like she doesn’t know what to do with gentleness from me. Like it rattles her more than violence ever could. My touch is careful instead of cruel, something that might look like mercy if she was foolish enough to believe me capable of it.
But this isn’t mercy. I just don’t know what the hell it is.
Her lips part, her chest rising unevenly, and I can’t stop staring. Not at her mouth. Not at the way her lashes lower with each stroke of the cloth. Every inch of her is a trigger I want to pull.
And this—this quiet intimacy between us—is more dangerous than fucking her against that tree. There’s no adrenaline to hide behind. No fury to use as armor. Just the truth, pressed between us like a fuse waiting to blow.
I drop the cloth to the floor, muscles tight, and grab the antibiotic from the kit. My hands move on instinct, brushing ointment over the wounds like I’ve done it a thousand times.
But I haven’t. Not for anyone.
I go to the other foot, slower this time, dragging it out like a sick bastard just for the excuse to keep touching her. My fingers graze her skin, memorizing the warmth, the fragility she hides so well.
Zachem ty mne nuzhna?Why do I need you?
None of this makes sense. I want to walk out, slam the door, and pretend this didn’t happen. But the thought of her here alone, hurting, even with just a cut, makes something vicious twist in my gut.
I want to leave. I need to stay. And the war between those two truths is tearing me apart from the inside out.
When I’m done, I reach for the last scrape and press a Band-Aid over it, letting my thumb trace slow, soothing circles against the soft skin of her ankle.
“Does it hurt?” My voice is quieter now, rough at the edges. “Do you want something for the pain?”
She looks down at me, eyes dark and unreadable.
“No,” she breathes. “I’ll live.”
But I’m not so sure I will. Not if she keeps looking at me like that. Not when every second I spend touching her feels like a confession. Not when I know down to the marrow in my bones that she was meant to ruin me.
