The footsteps come closer. “You’re in pain. I heard you from the hallway.”
“That’s just my natural charm showing through.” My voice comes out higher than intended. “Really, I’m—”
The door swings open, and there he is—towering, bare-chested, and entirely too composed for someone barging into a bathroom uninvited. He’s wearing nothing but black sweatpants riding low on his hips, his chest bare and still glistening with sweat from whatever violence he’s been practicing.
My gaze darts up, but the damage is done. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“What are you—?” I clutch at the cardigan like it’s my last line of defense, backing up against the counter. “I told you not to come in!”
His eyes flick to the cardigan, the bruises peeking out from the disheveled fabric, and then back to my face. There’s no smirk, no quip—just that unnerving intensity that makes my breath hitch.
“Move over,” he says simply, stepping inside like it’s his bathroom and not the scene of my impending mortification.
I gape at him, words failing me as he moves closer, the heat of him cutting through the steam. “Leonid—”
“Relax.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing mine as he takes hold of the stubborn cardigan. His movements are maddeningly gentle, and before I can protest, he’s slipping it off my shoulder with an ease that makes me want to scream. “You’re hurt. Stop being stubborn.”
“I wasn’t—” The lie dies on my lips as his hand lingers, tracing the edge of a bruise just below my ribs. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, the calm mask slips, revealing something darker.
“You shouldn’t be doing this alone,” he murmurs, his voice low but firm. His thumb brushes against my skin.
“I didn’t want to wake Elijah,” I manage. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
“Turn around,” he says quietly.
“I’d rather not,” I squeak, holding the cardigan like a shield.
“Clara.” His voice softens, but carries that edge of command that makes my knees weak. “Let me help you.”
“The last time you ‘helped’ me, I ended up—” I stop mid-sentence, a grunt of pain escaping as I move too quickly. His scent hits me then—gunpowder and cedarwood, with something raw and masculine underneath that makes my toes curl. The combination of hot steam and his presence is doing dangerous things to my common sense.
His lips twitch. “That was different.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.” He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “That was for punishment. This is for care.”
Something in his tone makes my heart flutter. I stay frozen as he gently takes the cardigan from my trembling fingers and sets it aside. His calloused hands hover over my shoulders, not quite touching.
“May I?”
The vulnerability in that question undoes me. I nod, not trusting my voice.
I sigh, letting my walls come down. The stubborn, independent part of me that always needs to be in control gives way to something softer, something that wants to trust in the tenderness of his touch. For once, I let myself be taken care of.
His fingers trace the edge of my bra strap with devastating gentleness. “Breathe,solnishko.”
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. When I exhale, some of the tension leaves my body. His large hands grip my shoulders, turning me to face the mirror. The movement is gentle but deliberate, and my breath catches again at the sight of us reflected in the steamy glass—my small frame dwarfed by his towering presence behind me.
His hands move with practiced ease, unhooking the clasp I’d been fighting with.
“You’ve had practice with this,” I murmur, trying to mask my nervousness with sarcasm.
Instead of smirking or making a suggestive comment, he simply says, “I’ve had practice taking care of wounds.” His fingers ghost over a particularly dark bruise on my side. “And the people who matter to me.”
The words hang in the steamy air between us, heavy with meaning. I meet his eyes in the mirror again, seeing past the dangerous exterior to something deeper, something that makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with my injuries.
“Leonid…” My voice cracks on his name.
