Page 85 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“Did they save you?”

“No,” he says, and he shifts closer, his arm sliding behind my back where his hand finds my waist under the blanket. “Irina did, and then she made my father stand in wet trousers.”

“Why?” I ask, laughing as I fold forward.

“She shouted at him for endangering her stupid little prince.”

My laugh fades as he moves closer, his hand settling at my waist and his thumb pressing into the curve where it dips into my hips.

“You’re still that boy sometimes,” I say, and my fingers curl into his wrist.

His expression shifts, his face tightening just a fraction. “It kept me alive.”

“And now?” I ask, and I don’t move when he leans in and kisses me on my mouth.

His hand turns, threading through mine, his thumb pressing into my palm. “Now it’s harder to stop.”

“Then don’t stop. Just don’t forget there’s more than that.”

He studies me, doesn’t look away, just stays.

“I don’t forget,” he says, his voice low.

I could leave it there, let the bed stay warm and his hand stay in mine. But the key is still on the table, and the lock it opens is still sitting between us.

“What happens if the wrong men get hold of me now?” I ask.

His hand stills against mine. He doesn’t answer fast, and that tells me he’s already walked himself through it.

“Tell me,” I say.

His voice goes flat. “They force signatures if they can. If they can’t, they wait for the child.”

My hand closes over my stomach. “And if I fight?”

“You would,” he says, and his eyes hold mine. “That’s why they’d restrain you early.”

25

ELENA

Iwake in his bed alone, a blanket pulled over me. I stay still for a second, my hand resting where he was, the sheet still warm enough to tell me he hasn’t been gone long. We talked deep into the night, and I drifted off somewhere between his voice and my own exhaustion. He pulled the blanket over me before he left. I push up slowly as it slips down my shoulders.

His shirt lies crumpled on the chair. I reach for it and pull it over my head, the fabric falling heavy against my skin, his scent still there, close enough to make me pause. I take the throw from the foot of the bed and wrap it around my hips, then slide my feet into the slippers by the rug and step into the hallway.

The house has snapped back into order. Guards hold their posts, and every corridor moves under watch. No one speaks as I pass. Inside my room, I shut the door and lean back against it for a second, then head straight to the bathroom and turn the shower on.

I step into the shower, and hot water hits my shoulders, then runs down my back and over my chest. I close my eyes and stand under it until my breathing slows. I tilt my head back and let the water soak through my hair. My shoulders ease first, then my spine. My hand moves to my stomach and rests there for a second, warm skin under wet fingers.

Then I let my hand slide away and reach for the soap.

I work it slowly over my arms, over my breasts, down my waist. My nipples tighten under my palm, and I draw in a breath I don’t try to hide. The water keeps falling, warm and steady, washing off sleep, and fear, and I stay there longer than I need to.

When I step out, cool air hits my wet skin.

I dry off, water still trailing down my legs, and stand on the rug while I work the towel through my hair, then drop it to the floor.

A knock lands at the door.