He was by my side in a millisecond, lifted me into his arms, and set me back down on the toilet. “Damn, Shorty, I told you to fucking wait.”
He stormed outside, came back with a broom and a vacuum.
Ivan muttered under his breath as he swept up the larger shards of glass, then followed with the vacuum to catch thetiny fragments. I watched him from my perch on the toilet seat, the towel clutched around me, feeling utterly useless and frustrated with my own weakness.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice small.
He glanced up, his expression softening slightly. “It’s not your fault. The drugs are probably still affecting your coordination.”
When the floor was clean, he straightened and ran a hand through his damp hair, leaving it standing in disheveled spikes. His soaked clothes clung to him, and water pooled at his feet. He looked at the bath, then at me, calculation clear in his eyes.
“You can’t get in there alone,” he said finally. “You’ll drown.”
I wanted to argue, but we both knew he was right. I could barely stand, let alone safely navigate a slippery bathtub.
He seemed to come to a decision. “There’s only one way.”
“What?”
“I’ll join you,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Take it or leave it. But that’s the only way you’ll get into this bathtub.”
He stared at me, and I stared back at him.
Though he wasn’t waiting for my permission.
He peeled off his wet shirt, revealing the muscular torso I’d glimpsed before. Scars marked his skin—clearly from violence—but covered by the large tattoo running from his throat all the way down the right side of his arm, side,chest, and stomach, intricate and beautiful in its complexity…and massive.
My finger itched to trace the lines, study it in detail.
He blocked my view when he turned away to hang his shirt. He raised his right arm, which was covered in ink, as well—a full sleeve all the way down to the back of his hand.
He removed his pants, and after a glimpse of his glutes, I turned my eyes back to the tub, maintaining what little privacy was possible in the small bathroom. When I faced him again, he wore only black boxer briefs that clung to his powerful thighs.
Despite my weakened state, heat suddenly coursed through me.
He’d looked sexy at the pool, but seeing him without a shirt was just next-level.
Maybe taking a bath with Ivan Zotov wasn’t the smartest thing to do.
Too late now.
He came over, lifted me into his arms, then carried me over and slowly lowered me into the deliciously hot water.
The tub was large, but Ivan was larger, his broad frame taking up considerable space as he slipped in behind me. I tensed as his legs slid alongside mine, his chest a wall of heat at my back.
“Lean back,” he instructed, his voice low near my ear. “Let’s get you warm.”
I hesitated for a second before I relaxed against him, my back pressing against his chest. His arms came around me, not confining but protectively holding me steady in the water. The position was intimate yet oddly calming, given our state of undress.
He made no move to touch me beyond what was necessary to keep me upright and wrapped in his arms. And even though I wouldn’t have protested if he’d pulled me closer, I admired his self-discipline.
We sat in silence for a while, the hot water slowly thawing the ice that seemed to have settled into my bones. I rested my head against his shoulder, my eyes half-closed as exhaustion pulled at me. “Why are you doing all this?” I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
I felt rather than saw his slight shrug. “You needed help.”
“But why you?” I pressed. “You could have handed me off to my brother. Or to your sisters. Or to a doctor.”
He was quiet for so long, I thought he might not answer. Finally, he said, “I couldn’t.”
