Icarried Isabella through the door to my quarters, her body light yet solid against my chest. Her head rested against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. The violent rocking of the speedboat had probably drained what little energy she had left after her ordeal with Moretti and Grey.
With every step away from everybody else, the tightness in my chest loosened, but my grip on her never did as if she might vanish if I loosened my hold even slightly. How close I’d come to losing her. How easily Moretti could have?—
I cut the thought off.
She was here. Safe. In my arms. Just holding her was enough.
Once inside, I locked the door. What next?
“You can put me down,” she murmured against my neck. “I can walk.”
“I know you can.” I didn’t loosen my grip, though. “I know.” But the feel of her against my chest had become a reassurance I wasn’t willing to surrender yet. “Let me just hold you.”
She didn’t protest further, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. The gesture wasn’t desperate, just…present. As if she needed the confirmation I was really there. Or maybe she gave me the reassurance I needed.
We were safe now, but my body hadn’t received the message yet.
It took a while until the dripping of our soaking-wet clothes pulled me out of my temporary daze. We were leaving a puddle on the floor.
I carried her over and nudged the bathroom door with my foot, then maneuvered us through the narrow space without jostling her.
“Bath or shower?” I asked, my voice sounding rougher than intended. How was it that every single interaction between us always led us to the bathroom?
She hesitated. “Bath, I think. I’m too tired to stand.”
I nodded and gently set her on the edge of the counter. Her eyes followed me as I moved to the tub, turning the taps to get the temperature right.
Steam began rising, fogging the mirror.
“Don’t move,” I said, stepping back into my bedroom to grab a couple of clothes for us. When I returned, she was exactly where I’d left her, watching me with those intelligent eyes that missed nothing.
The silence stretched between us, comfortable rather than awkward.
The storm outside provided a constant backdrop of sound—rain lashing against the windows, thunder occasionally shaking the building.
I focused on the task at hand rather than the storm of my own thoughts—thoughts about Grey escaping, about the look on Moretti’s face, his hands on Isabella. About Anton and Chris rescuing Cara, and then my clash with Director Kozlova because she had the motivation, abilities, and power to make my future life hell.
I tested the water temperature with my hand. Perfect. Then I poured a measure of Epsom salts into the water, followed by a measure of bath salts. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus filled the small space.
Isabella raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been holding out on me. Didn’t expect you to have bath salts.”
“Muscle recovery,” I said, testing the water temperature again. “Helps with soreness after a long day.”
She smiled slightly. “Of course. Very tactical bath salts.”
I smiled back.
How drastically my priorities had shifted in just days. A week ago, I had been the Paraskia’s perfect operative.
Focused. Controlled. Effective.
Now I had abandoned everything to be with a woman I’d known for less than a week. A woman who belonged to a family that had been on our watchlist for decades. A woman who, by all objective measures, should be my enemy.
Yet here I was, measuring bath salts with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.
I glanced up and found her watching me with genuine curiosity. Her hair was beginning to dry in wild strands around her face, and a bruise was forming along her jawline. My jaw tightened at the sight, but I kept my expression even.
“Do the deadly Zotovs ever take bubble baths?”
