It warms me in a way I cannot describe.
I do not want anyone near us. I enjoy forcing them away. I enjoy being her center of gravity.
She rests her hand on my knee under the table, so subtle it looks accidental. My breath quickens. I move, apparently too fast, because her hand flies off me like she did something wrong.
Shit.
I know she is thinking about the dinner. Right before her punishment began. I fucking traumatized her.
Russian women hide trauma. She bears it. I suppose a loud woman can’t hide much.
I sigh and take her hand in mine. “I made a mistake with you, Peighton. I am... unfamiliar with training a woman like you.”
“Training?” She squints.
“Da. Teaching you. I suppose I went too far at the dinner.”
She slaps the table and mock laughs. “Ya think? I’m not a dog that you can train, Gustav.”
“Hey,” says a man, who suddenly outstretches his hand. “Gustav Sokolov in the flesh. I’m Professor Aslan.”
Gustav eyes the hand. “Are you Peighton’s professor?”
The man shakes his head.
He shrugs. “Then I do not care. Move along.”
The man walks off without another word.
“I thought Russian people were big on manners,” she says softly.
“Not me. Besides, you are my first priority,” I explain.
She swallows. Glances away. Then looks back at me.
“You don’t seem heartless today.”
“Russian men care deeply for their families,” I say. “Even if we appear harsh.”
She nods slowly, like she wants to believe me.
“So you care deeply for me?”
I take her hand and gently kiss the top. Despite my efforts not to twitch, I do. Can’t help it. This woman stirs too many emotions in me. I manage a reply.
“Yes. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be so lost right now.”
“Lost?”
I stand and take her hand. Because talking is too foreign.
She blinks. “Where are we going?”
I guide her toward the back of the library, past rows of shelves.
“To make you see,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches.
