“I know.” I don’t loosen my grip. “But you’ll follow.”
In my study, I drop into the chair behind my desk and spread my legs.
“Stand here.” I tap the space between my thighs.
She hesitates. “I can sit on—”
“Here, Anya.”
She huffs and steps into the space, edging in until she’s almost touching me. I take her hand again, turning it palm up. Blood shines in the firelight.
“How deep?” I ask.
“Superficial,” she says automatically. “Didn’t hit tendons. No foreign body. It just… stings.” Her voice shakes on the last word.
I reach for the decanter, pouring whiskey into a crystal glass.
“Alcohol will clean it,” I say.
She snorts. “Not at that concentration. You need—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I also know it’s going to sting like hell, and I’m in the mood for honesty.”
Before she can argue, I tip the glass over her hand.
She gasps, whole body jerking, free hand flying to my shoulder for balance. Fingertips dig into the muscles through my shirt.
“Blyad’, Roman,” she hisses. “That fucking hurts.”
“Language,” I say mildly. “There’s still a sliver in there.”
She tries to yank her hand back. I hold on.
“Don’t move,” I tell her. “You’ll make it worse.”
I open the drawer, take out the knife.
She goes rigid.
“Relax.” I angle the blade under the skin, eyes on the cut. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d use something bigger.”
“That supposed to be funny?”
“No.” I flick the glass shard out, watching fresh blood well up. “Statement of fact.”
I should reach for gauze. I don’t.
Her blood pools in her palm. Hot. Bright.Mine.
Something ugly and hungry rises in my chest.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I bring her hand to my mouth.
She freezes and makes a tiny sound, high and shocked.
Copper. Salt. Her. It hits my system like a shot of adrenaline. My cock goes from interested to hard in seconds.
“The fuck are you doing?” she whispers.
