Page 75 of Merciless Queen

“Volkov!”

Cool air rushes into my lungs as the shower door opens with a loud crack. Why is a shower door so noisy? Or is it because everything else is so muted that the single sound stands out?Either way, it’s a noise my mind latches onto, to ignore the figure stepping inside the shower, the water instantly soaking his clothing. The figure kneels, and rough, calloused hands jerk my face up. I try to fight, but my waning strength and growing exhaustion can’t, and I’m forced to stare into thed'yavol’sface. The devil with water-kissed eyelashes that make those impossible emerald eyes glisten more than normal.

When did my captor become so attractive? Was it before or after I lost my mind?

Water trickles from his eyelashes and lands on his cheeks, sliding down to the edge of his chin. My gaze follows every single droplet to remain grounded and not fall into madness within my enemy’s hold.

Not sure it’s working. If I wasn’t already mad, I wouldn’t be allowing him to touch me. To stroke his thumbs beneath my eyes and wash away the dark marks. To tug me onto his lap, like we’re some domesticated couple who cares about each other’s well-being.

“Mio Dio.You’re a mess, Vanessa.”

He holds such low standards for me. I wish that didn’t hurt as much as it does.

Forcing my mouth to form words and push sound from my throat, I murmur, “That’s why I’m in the shower.” My words feel distanced, like I’m hearing them spoken by somebody else.

He huffs, studying my face, and I wonder what he sees there. What I’m revealing. At this point, I’m pretty sure my mask is so well shattered. Pieces lie all around me, and I want nothing more to mend it, place it back on my face, and hide again.

After a moment, he either does or doesn’t find what he’s looking for, but releases my jaw, bringing my head to his shoulder. He’s holding me. Comforting me.

The fucked-up part: I don’t pull away.

As Zeno Mancini, my enemy, Capo of the Cosa Nostra, the man I share a half-sibling with, and whose organization is locked in an endless history of feuding, blood, and pain with my own, holds me, I don’t shy away. Instead, I accept his large hands rubbing up and down my bare arm, and the feeling of his hard chest, drenched shirt sticking to him, against my bare one.

Maybe I’m what he’s been calling me. What I vowed I’d never be.

Broken.

I’m clearlysomethingfor allowing this.

Zeno reaches up and grabs a soap bottle and loofah off the built-in shower shelf. He squeezes soap into it and begins washing my upper body. It’s strange to have someone else be doing this. To have his gentle touch stroke over my shoulders and down my arms. He reangles me slightly so my back is against his chest, and he mechanically washes my front, fingers brushing over my nipples.

“You’re getting wet,” is all I manage to say. “Your bandage.” Seems like forever ago he was getting bullet shards pulled from his body.

“Price of ensuring you don’t drown yourself. This definitely isn’t what I expected to find you doing.”

“Experiencing a breakdown in the enemy’s shower.” I’m finding comfort in this conversation, in the banter that reminds me of so many of our previous interactions. “Yeah, me neither.”

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, his hands caressing over my hips. “You’re not having a breakdown.”

I do a stupid thing and tip my head backwards to look at him upside down. “Then what would you describe this?”

“Fishing for a compliment, Volkov?” He smirks, but replies, “I’d say, you learned a really big fact about your life and your mind is processing.”

“This must thrill you then. Finding meprocessing.”

“It should thrill me,” he utters low, almost like he’s talking to himself.

He pauses to retrieve more soap, and that’s when I notice the bottle’s label. It’s his soap. Which, why wouldn’t it be, considering whose shower I’m inside? He’s washing me with his soap, which means I’m going to smell like him.

Not sure how I feel about that one.

“It should thrill me,” he repeats, “but I’m finding that isn’t the case.”

Just like your touch shouldn’t thrill me, but it does.

Yet, my eyes flutter shut and a sigh decompresses my spine. I’m completely limp against him and not a tiny bit tense, which is stupid. Papa, Dimitri, even Anastasia, they’d all disown me if they saw this. My actions aren’t those of a Pakhan in enemy territory. I should be plotting and battling my way to freedom. But for this single moment in time, it’s nice not to act like a Pakhan. Words I can’t believe went through my mind.

His hands pass over my thighs, dipping between them, and I slowly spread them. Another out-of-body experience I mentally berate myself for but don’t stop.

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