He walks in, following suit and removing his dress shoes.
“Sit.” I gesture to the big recliner.
He curls his hand, careful not to get blood on the rug.
“I’ll be right back.” I hurry to the bathroom to retrieve the fully stocked and meticulously organized first aid kit I store under the sink.
Mine’s professional-grade, with everything from butterfly closures to burn dressings, not the drugstore kind with a few band-aids and antiseptic wipes. When you spend your days with five-year-olds wielding scissors, you learn to be prepared.
When I return, I place the kit on the coffee table and kneel beside him.
He tracks my every move, taking in my kit with obvious amusement but not saying a peep.
I open the betadine spray. “This might sting a little.” I’ve uttered these same words to countless children in the last few years.
In the chair, Kolya remains still, his posture rigid. He’s almost alien in my cozy living room, like a wolf in a dollhouse. His dark clothes, still dusted with glitter from the craft store disaster, stand out against my colorful throw pillows.
Delicately, I raise his hand, flipping the palm down to examine the damage. His skin is warm, calloused, and scarred.
These hands have experienced and caused violence.
The splits in the knuckles aren’t too deep, but they’re still bleeding. New wounds over layers of scars. “You should have hit him with something other than your bare fist. Less damage to your hand that way.”
Kolya snorts. I spray the betadine, which foams orangey brown, over his damaged skin.
“You’ve done this before.” A statement, not a question.
“Kindergarteners are basically tiny drunk people. No impulse control and poor motor skills.” I dab the excess betadine with a cotton ball. “I’ve bandaged more injuries than some ER nurses.”
His skin is hot under my fingers as I apply antibiotic ointment and wrap gauze around his knuckles. I secure the gauze with medical tape, then sit back on my heels to examine my work. “There. Not too tight? You need to keep your circulation?—”
“A bunny.” His rumble vibrates through me.
My head jerks up. “What?”
He lifts his hand and skims his bandaged knuckles over my cheek, his whisper-light touch at odds with the carnage inflicted by those same hands.
“How can you be real?”
It’s less of a question for me to answer and more of an observation that cuts straight through me.
I can’t stop staring at him, certain he can hear my thundering pulse. His eyes are dark, bottomless pools I could drown in if I’m not careful.
Too bad I’m not feeling especially cautious at the moment.
He surges to his feet in one fluid motion and pulls me up with him. The first aid kit scatters across the floor, cotton balls and wrappers flying.
I should be terrified. I should run. Instead, I melt.
His body is a solid wall of muscle pressed against mine. One hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back and exposing my throat. “You’re a big fucking problem.”
His mouth crashes down on mine.
Not a kiss. Eradication. Hard and hungry and punishing.
He tastes of violence and control, and I meet him with a desperation I didn’t know I possessed. My hands clutch his shirt, tugging him closer as I attempt to climb inside the heat of him.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down my throat, scraping his teeth against my pulse point. I gasp, the sound embarrassingly needy. His bandaged hand—the one I just tended—comes up to grip my jaw, holding me steady. A possessive, unmistakable claim.
