Failure is just an opportunity to learn.
Nothing happens for no reason.
Another plan will come, another chance to test the fences.
Now that I know he’s watching me, I’ll be more careful.
Minutes pass until I sense another presence in the room.
He’s back.
This time, he carries clothes. Fresh, clean, and folded like display items. Silently, he places them on the bed.
He kneels in front of me, where I’m still curled against the wall below my failed attempt at rebellion.
He sets out an array of small packets. Antiseptic wipes. Gauze. Medical tape. While wiping the blood from my hand, he works with no wasted motion. He cleans each slice, never too rough or too gentle.
Just precise, surgical movements.
He’s…tending to my wounds? Fixing the consequences of my actions?
Why? Probably so I won’t get bloodstains on the linens. But still, I could have settled for a wad of toilet paper.
Although he smells cold up close, like steel rinsed in rain, his skin gives off a steady, unsettling heat.
After cleaning and sanitizing my hand, he grabs the gauze and begins wrapping.
“Is your tetanus vaccine up-to-date?”
The words, the first he’s spoken since this morning, come out flat and focused.
“Yeah, I think so. I got a booster a few years ago.” I wince when the gauze scrapes a deeper cut in the meat of my palm. My fingers twitch.
Kirill pauses. When he starts wrapping again, the motions are slower. More tender. “I’ll bring you some painkillers.”
I never expected this kind of reaction. I think again of the gentle but insistent way he kissed me. “It’s really fine. It doesn’t hurt that much.” Air bleeds into my voice, pitching the words higher. His hands on mine are so, so hot.
“Painkillers.” He tapes the last bandage with careful precision. “Don’t be stubborn.”
Our eyes lock.
Energy passes between us, dense and charged. Not comfort. What’s the opposite of connection?
Disconnection. Danger.
Desire.
He brushes his thumb over my palm in a barely there touch.
The touch spirals electricity up my arm and straight to my chest. My next breath is shaky.
Then he’s up and gone again.
He returns a few minutes later carrying a tray. And like a useless lump, I remain on the floor.
I can tell what he brought by the smell before he even sets the meal down on the bed.
Full American breakfast: eggs, pancakes, bacon, hash browns, coffee in a real mug, sliced fresh fruit in a crystal bowl.
