Page 114 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

My fingers turned over, slipped into his palm. He curled his fingers around mine, gentle, like he was holding something fragile.

I kept my eyes closed. I didn't wake. But my hand stayed there, in his palm, like a bird that had finally come home, wings folded, resting in the safest place.

The sunlight kept moving. The car kept going.

From that day forward, from the moment he came for me, he would never let go.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Anna

When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was white.

Stark white. Almost blinding. A hairline crack ran from the light fixture, snaking across the plaster like the bed of a dried-up stream.

The air smelled of disinfectant. Faint. Muted by something. Not sharp, but persistent.

I blinked. My gaze drifted left to the pale blue curtains stirring in the breeze. The edge lifted, then fell.

Someone was holding my hand. Loosely. No grip. Just resting there, afraid to press too hard.

I turned my head.

Ivan sat in the chair beside the bed, leaning back, chin dipped, eyes closed. His lashes cast faint gray shadows beneath his lids.

His jacket hung on the chair. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing a fresh red mark on his wrist—like something rough had scraped him.

His breathing was steady, but a crease sat between his brows. Even in sleep, he hadn't let go.

I moved my fingers.

He woke instantly.

Not like someone pulled from deep sleep—his eyes snapped open, clear. Alert. Like he'd never really been asleep at all. Just resting on the surface.

He looked at me. The corner of his mouth shifted. A faint curve. Barely there.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was rough. Dry. Like he hadn't spoken—or drunk water—in hours.

I looked at him. His back was curved slightly. His shirt wrinkled at the hem.

His gaze settled on my face. Quiet. Like he was confirming something he'd already confirmed a hundred times but still needed to see to believe.

"What happened?" I asked. My voice came out thinner than I expected. Like it had traveled a long way back.

His mouth twitched.

"You slept a full day."

"A full day?"

"You were exhausted." His gaze moved from my face to my hand resting on the blanket. "The doctor said you were dehydrated. Low blood sugar. Soft tissue damage to your wrists. You need rest. But nothing serious."

He paused. His throat worked. Like he'd swallowed words he wasn't ready to say.

I watched him. His eyes stayed on my hand, but his fingers tightened around mine, checking for warmth.

I waited.