“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is Sokolov dead?”
“Yes.”
He swallows. I see his fingers twitch like he’s stopping himself from reaching for me. Then he does that thing with his hair I like too much, dragging his palm through it to push the strands back and putting that gorgeous face on display. It lights a hunger in me and my pent-up anger shifts fast into something visceral.
“Come shower with me.” Sliding my jacket off, I pull my shirt over my head. Jonah’s gaze flicks over my chest, and his tongue licks his lips before he can stop himself.
“You shouldn't.”
“I should. Now.”
I stalk to the bathroom without looking over my shoulder. When I hear him hurry after me, my lips curl. My dick perks up because I’m going to fuck Jonah until he can't think straight. Until he remembers who he belongs to. I’ve never been a man who wonders much about feelings because I never cared for them. Our inner circle was what mattered. But Jonah is different. He’s a gravity I haven't learned how to fight.
My ribs twinge, a sharp reminder to tone the arrogance down. The room tilts for a second and then steadies. I take the rest of my clothes off and step under the hot spray.
“Viktor?”
“Step inside, krasavchik.”
He does what I order, stepping in behind me and reaching for me.
“Let me wash you.” He doesn't wait for my approval because he doesn't need to.
I watch as he works the lube and gel into his palms, sliding his hands through the foam, over my pecs, down my sternum, and over my stomach. The sensation of his soap-slicked palms is a clean strike to my nerves, washing away the grit of the docks.
“Touch it, Jonah.”
He flushes and a small smile pulls at his lips, but he still hesitates. His skittishness is a fucking turn-on. Jonah traces a finger over my erection, toying with the slit, and I hiss while I brace a palm against the tile as need tightens low in my gut. His touch is tentative, a sharp contrast to the way I just held the knife.
“I never thought of a dick as pretty,” he murmurs. His eyes stay focused on my cock as he tightens his grip and strokes me. His hand falters for a second when he looks up at me, then higher, to my hair. “You have blood in your hair. How did you kill him?”
“I gave him the courtesy of choosing the knife.”
Jonah flinches, but he still says, “Good. Let me take care of you. Let me wash your hair first.”
I dip my head forward and give him access. I watch the water swirl red around my feet, the basement floor rinsing off me in a steady stream. I am washing away the grit of the docks, but the iron scent of the kill is already under my skin, and the way Jonah watches the red circle the drain tells me he’s stopped looking for a way to stay clean. He’s choosing the stain.
“Feels good?” His fingers keep moving. “I’m glad.”
He finishes and rinses my hair clean, pressing his thumb just behind my ear. Water slides past us, carrying the last few weeks down the drain, and for the first time in too long, I feel a little like myself again.
“If you believe I’m a weak man, you’re wrong, krasavchik.”
“I don't, Viktor. But that doesn't mean it can't be hard to kill a man you once considered a friend.”
“A friend?” I bare my teeth at him. “A friend?”
“I might come from a very different world, but I know what it’s like to be betrayed by people you care for. People you trust.”
He isn't wrong. Sokolov was Father’s man and he betrayed him. I don't care what bullshit story he gave me because he helped Father into his grave and gave Sergei the throne. I trusted him. My palms reach out to touch Jonah, circling his delicate throat. I don't squeeze to hurt. I squeeze to feel the thrum of his life against my hand. I want to remind myself that while I just left a room full of corpses, he is here and he is warm.
I increase the pressure just enough to make his breath hitch. Jonah’s eyes go wide and his blown pupils swallow the iris as he looks up at me. He doesn't pull away, but instead leans into the weight of my hand while his erratic pulse jumps against my thumb.
“You once asked me if I’ve killed a man.” Leaning closer, I watch the way his throat moves as he tries to swallow against my grip. “Tonight I did. With my favorite knife. I heard him beg, then slit his throat. I watched him die at my feet. Give me one good reason why you’re not running from me, but washing blood out of my hair.”
