My mouth fell open, and my heart jumped, then started to race before I got a grip on myself. “If you think kinky stuff impresses me, you’re completely mistaken. I like vanilla, plain, old vanilla.”
He grinned down at me. “Shut up, Shorty.” He clicked one cuff around my wrist and the other around his before I could even process what was happening. “This isn’t about impressing you, dreaming about you, or sleeping with you. It’s about keeping you from burning down another building.”
So he’d lulled me into safety only to pull this stunt? I yanked at the cuff, but it was solid. “You’re insane.”
“Get in bed.”
“I can always strangle you in your sleep.”
He chuckled. “I thought you weren’t into kinky stuff.”
I sighed. This was getting us nowhere. With as much dignity as I could muster, I climbed under the covers and moved as close to the edge as possible. Zotov turned down the only gas lamp that was still on and slid in beside me, his weight making the mattress dip.
I stayed silent and motionless while fighting the fatigue I was feeling for what felt like an eternity.
The cabin grew cold as the fire he’d lit earlier died down. Even under the blanket, I could feel the chill seeping into my bones, and my hand that stuck out felt numb and frozen. I shivered, trying to stay still, but gradually foundmyself inching toward the center of the bed, toward the heat I knew from earlier would be radiating from Zotov’s body. He didn’t even use a blanket, the asshole.
“Stop fucking wiggling like an earthworm and go to sleep,” he growled, his voice hoarse after my third subtle shift closer.
“I can do whatever I want,” I snapped back. “And I would stop wiggling if I wasn’t so fucking cold.”
He growled—actually growled—but then his arm snaked around my waist, and he pulled me against his body. He was like a human furnace, warmth instantly enveloping me.
“I don’t—” I started to protest.
“Shut up. And stop moving. And I promise, there’s no funny business happening.”
I stiffened against him. “And if I don’t shut up, or I move?”
His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper near my ear. “Try me and find out.”
Something in his tone made me swallow whatever retort I was about to make. I stopped talking, stopped moving, and to my surprise, found myself feeling unexpectedly safe and comfortable in his arms. The steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair was oddly soothing, and despite everything—the handcuffs, the kidnapping, the dangerous man holding me—I felt my eyelids grow heavy.
The last thing I remembered before drifting off was the gentle pressure of his arm around my waist and the unsettling realization that I’d never fallen asleep this easily next to a man before.
9
IVAN
Iwatched her sleep, this fierce little wildcat, who’d fought me at every turn, now curled against my chest like a kitten. The handcuffs linking us together clinked softly when she shifted, seeking my warmth. In sleep, she looked impossibly young and vulnerable. I inhaled her light floral scent.
The firelight cast soft shadows across her face, highlighting cheekbones that would only sharpen with age. A small furrow remained between her brows, even in sleep, as if she couldn’t fully let go of her defenses, or maybe she was still suffering from a headache. I resisted the strange urge to smooth it away with my thumb.
Hard to believe this was the same woman who’d tried to burn down a whole hospital just to escape me. Who’d spat insults in my face while bleeding. Who’d challenged me with those fierce eyes that missed nothing.
Those Salvini twins really were something else.
I’d woken her up twice, just to make sure, in case she had a concussion, but every time she opened her eyes, I was hit with a wave of…overwhelming protectiveness.
I studied her features, trying to find differences between her and her sister. I’d only really interacted with Isabella once, outside the Salvini residence. She’d been fierce, as well, and seeing those two together, I’d never have guessed Mirabella was the feistier one. Still struggled to make sense of it. I studied her face. They looked so much alike—even the photos in their files were indistinguishable. But there had to be something—a freckle, a scar, something to differentiate them. But in the dim light, with her features relaxed in sleep, I could see nothing definitive.
Apart from a fuckingly beautiful young woman.
It was irritating.
I prided myself on precision, on knowing exactly who and what I was dealing with. Grey had been clear that he wanted Isabella specifically, yet here I was, fascinated by her twin, who was breathing softly against my collarbone.
The wound near her hairline caught my attention—the butterfly bandages looked solid—no bleeding, no swelling. But just to make sure, I would order proper medical attention for her once we reached the destination though it would be quite some time until we’d arrive there.
