Page 39 of Emerald Malice

But she doesn’t move as I peel the dress off her shoulders. Then I move on to her bra and panties.

The ache in my body doesn’t extend to my cock, because that part of me perks right up the moment I catch a glimpse of her soft breasts.

But my arousal is quickly washed away by worry.

She’s cold.

Lifting her into my arms, I carry her into the bathroom and settle her in the tub. It takes a few minutes for the tub to fill with hot water, but while we wait, I strip naked myself, grab a hand towel from the rack, and slip in behind her. I pull her between my legs and spend the next few minutes running the towel over her body again and again.

It’s immensely satisfying to watch the goosebumps on her skin disappear. To see her begin to move. A finger here, a toe there.

Eventually, her lips part and a tiny sigh escapes. It’s a small thing, a fragile thing. But it breaks the spell.

Suddenly, I’m struck full-force with the realization that this was not one of my better ideas.

Before I can find a way to extricate myself from the situation, her eyes blink open as if for the first time. “It’s okay, lastochka. You’re safe in this house. You’re safe with me.”

Her fingers curl around my arm.

I want to pull her closer. Hold her longer.

I want to make promises I have no business making.

I can’t afford to do any of that.

So, reluctantly, I get out of the tub and lift her into my arms again. By the time I’ve toweled her dry and dressed her in clean clothes, my erection is only mildly painful.

I settle her back in bed and pull the covers over her chest, and she turns to me. Her eyes are filled with dazed awareness.

Which means the fun part is over.

It’s time to talk.

14

NATALIA

I still don’t know what happened.

It was a chaotic jumble of gunshots and broken glass and rusted fire escapes. Of Andrey’s body falling through the air and hitting the ground so, so hard.

Adrenaline and survival instincts carried me through the worst of the nightmare. Then I slipped into this fugue state. When Andrey’s men showed up and bundled me into the back of a big, black SUV, I didn’t even put up a fight. Because, for some strange reason, I needed to hold Andrey’s hand while they drove us to the closest hospital.

Except they drove straight past the hospital.

“What are you doing?” I screamed from the back seat, Andrey’s limp hand clamped in mine. “You missed the hospital!”

“That’s because we’re not taking him to a hospital.” The man who spoke had a sharp, aquiline nose and dark, ranging eyes.

“Why the hell not?”

No one answered me. The man—someone called him Shura—and said something in rapid Russian.

“He needs to see a doctor!” I insisted, staring at Andrey’s pale, bloodied face.

“Trust me,” Shura said. “Andrey Kuznetsov has lived through much worse than this.”

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be comforting. If so, he was failing miserably.

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