“I’m an excellent liar. You just happen to be annoyingly perceptive.” I set my glass down and turn to face her fully. “How’s the pain?”
She shrugs, and the movement makes the shirt slip further down her shoulder. “Manageable.”
“Let me see.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“The marks. I need to see them.” I’m already crossing toward her. Her chin lifts as I get closer, her shoulders square up like she’s bracing for impact. “Turn around.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“No. I’m the one who put them there.” I stop in front of her, close enough to smell the whiskey on her breath. “Turn around, Anya.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she sets her jaw and turns, presenting her back to me.
I reach for the hem of my shirt and lift it slowly.
The welts are worse than I expected. Four dark lines across the curve of her ass, the skin around them hot and swollen when I brush my fingers over them. She hisses through her teeth, and her body goes rigid under my touch.
“They need arnica,” I say. “And ice. Stay here.”
I go to the bathroom and gather what I need—the gel from the medicine cabinet, a hand towel wrapped around ice, and a basin of warm water. When I come back, she’s still standing in the same spot with her arms wrapped around herself, watching me.
“On the couch,” I say, nodding toward the leather sofa by the fireplace. “Face down.”
“Roman—”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” The words feel strange in my mouth.
She hesitates.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But if you try anything—”
“You’ll poison me. I know.”
She crosses to the couch and lies down on her stomach, pillowing her head on her folded arms. I settle onto the cushion beside her hip and push the shirt up to her lower back, exposing all four welts.
The ice comes first. She gasps when I press it against the worst of the marks, her whole body jerking at the cold.
“Breathe,” I say, holding it in place with one hand while the other rests on her lower back. “It’ll numb in a minute.”
“I know how ice works.” Her voice is muffled by her arms. “I’m a scientist.”
“How could I forget? You reminded a room full of Chechen assassins all about it.”
“I was making conversation.”
“I’m not going to repeat myself.” I shift the ice to cover the second welt, and she shudders. “You wanted them to know you weren’t scared.”
“I wasn’t scared.”
“You were terrified. I could feel your thigh shaking under my hand the entire dinner.” I move the ice again, tracing the third mark. “But you dealt with it by running your mouth instead of keeping your head down as I told you.”
“Keeping my head down isn’t really my style.”
“I noticed.”
The ice has done its job. I set it aside and reach for the arnica gel, squeezing a generous amount onto my fingers. The first touch makes her tense up again, muscles going rigid under my palm.
