Good.
I sat beside her and held out the water.
She took it, drank, then gave it back.
When I reached for the sheet, her hand closed over mine.
“I can do it.”
“Yes,” I said, and gave her the cloth.
She looked surprised again.
I turned my back and stood.
Behind me, fabric shifted. Water moved softly. Her breath caught once.
I gripped the footboard and stayed where I was until she said, “All right.”
When I turned, she had the sheet around her again, chin lifted as if daring me to pity her.
I didn’t pity Nadia Yelchin.
I wanted stone walls around her and a weapon in her hand.
I took a clean shirt from the drawer and gave it to her. “This may be easier than the sweater.”
She took it.
I turned again while she put it on.
“You keep doing that,” she said.
“What?”
“Turning around.”
“You have had enough men look tonight.”
The room went quiet.
When I faced her again, she wore my white shirt with the sleeves rolled badly and the hem down to her thighs. The sight of it struck somewhere lower than lust.
I wanted that shirt on the floor beside her clothes for the rest of my life.
She sat against the pillows while I pulled on dark trousers and left my shirt off. I brought the tray from the living room myself: soup, bread, tea gone cooler but still drinkable, and fruit.
Nadia looked at the tray. “You’re serious.”
“You need food.”
“I just had sex for the first time after being kidnapped from an auction, and you brought soup.”
“Yes.”
She laughed, small and cracked.
I held the bowl out. “I’ll accept criticism after three bites.”
