Page 44 of 10 Days to Surrender

Sasha’s hand twitches toward mine, though he stops just short. “Please.”

“Fine,” I grumble. “But if this is some ploy to get me naked?—”

“Ptichka…” His lips quirk. “When have I ever needed an excuse for that?”

Sasha drives one-handed, the other resting on the gearshift—close, too close, to my thigh. Tuscan hills unravel outside the window, olive groves ghostly in the fog. I count crumbling farmhouses to avoid counting the number of times his gaze flicks to my reflection.

He parks where the gravel dies and kills the engine. “Here we are.”

“Here” is a slash in the mountainside veiled by cypress trees. No signs. No changing rooms. Certainly no black-marble-and-champagne-tray pitfalls to avoid. Just a crescent of steaming water cupped by mossy stones, the air thick with sulfur and earth.

Sasha circles the Peugeot to open my door. I wave him off, but my body betrays me as I try to do it all myself, a whimper escaping as I lever myself out. His jaw ticks.

“I’m fine,” I snap before he can speak.

“You’re stubborn.”

“Pot, kettle, asshole.”

He huffs something that might’ve been a laugh in another lifetime. Then he turns and leads the way. But I can practically feel his attention radiating back down toward me, cataloging every step, every breath.

The path up is treacherous, slick with dew. Sasha walks ahead, testing each stone. I mimic his footsteps, absurdly aware of how his shoulders tense whenever my breath hitches. Halfway down, my sandal slips?—

—and his hand shoots back to catch my elbow.

We freeze. His thumb taps the inside of my arm, once. “Careful,” he rumbles. Then he lets go.

It’s not much farther until we reach the top. We round a giant boulder and there it is.

The pool glistens below us, steam rising off its surface, calm water the color of oversteeped tea. We both stand awkwardly for a minute. I’m looking at Sasha; Sasha is looking pointedly everywhere but at me. The springs hiss like a third presence. In the corner of my eye, I see Sasha’s fingers hovering at the hem of his shirt. My pulse thrums in my throat.

Then he peels the fabric off, and I’m gutted.

Old scars I’ve traced with my tongue. The jagged necklace of raised flesh around his neck. The newer wounds, still raw above his hip and across his shoulders. My body remembers the heat of him, the salt, the way he’d groan when I kissed that spot beneath his collarbone.

He hesitates, hand on his belt. Gray eyes lock onto mine. “You need help?”

“N-no. I’m good.”

I don’t feel good, though. I’m steaming up from within. Who needs hot springs when you’ve got repressed sex fantasies to keep you warm?

My fingers fumble with the buttons of my dress. Every brush of fabric against oversensitive skin is a betrayal.

He turns away, giving me privacy that feels a hell of a lot more like punishment. I’d do the same, but he’s too quick—he shucks his pants down, revealing lean muscles clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs.

Water ripples outward as he sinks into the pool. I watch the muscles in his back flex, the droplets clinging to his shoulders. My mouth goes arid.

You’ve done this before,I remind myself.You’ve had him roaring your name against a library wall.Compared to that, this is nothing.

But that was before the lies. Before the blood.

Things are different now.

When the last button finally comes undone, my dress slithers down to a puddle on the grass. I step out of it in my bra and panties, ashamed by the swell of my stomach, and hurry to lower myself down into the spring so I can hide beneath the surface of the water.

But it’s slow-going. Too slow. I can’t see where I’m stepping, so I have to move gingerly. I can feel Sasha’s eyes on me the whole time, cataloging every inch of my near-nakedness.

I fumble down, sliding from one wet rock to the next, until at last I sink up to my waist. The heat is instant relief on my lower back. I can’t help letting out a whimper of gratitude.

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