Page 27 of 10 Days to Surrender

“I’d get it if she did.”

“Same. And believe me, I’ve tried to talk her into it. No dice, though. She’s a saint. We don’t deserve her. Well, I don’t. And actually, you definitely don’t, either.”

Sasha laughs, but the wince passes over his face again when the effort forces his abs to tighten and tug at the wound again.

I frown. “That’s not a light graze, Sasha.”

“I’m fine. It’s just?—”

“You’re not fine,” I interrupt. “You’re a bullheaded man, just like the rest of them.” I jab a finger at a nearby bench. “Sit down. I saw a first aid kit in the car.”

I go to fetch it. When I come back in with the kit in hand, I’m half-surprised to see that he actually listened. He must really be hurting; the Sasha I know—the Sasha Iknew,rather—would never have taken orders. He’d have been defiant for defiance’s sake.

Who broke him?I wonder again.

I’m even more surprised that he lets me take off the bandages and start to dab disinfectant on the edges of the wound. I’m very, very careful not to allow myself to touch him. I know too well what happens when skin touches skin.

After all, this entire saga began when he pulled out a first aid kit and began tending to me.

“Dragan did a thorough job,” I mutter.

Sasha scowls. “Not as thorough as he would’ve liked. I won’t make that same mistake when the tables are turned.”

I shake my head in disgust as I dip another cotton ball into the hydrogen peroxide. “Good to see you’ve learned your lesson about these stupid power squabbles.” I feel like Mama, slamming kitchen cabinets and muttering aboutmen and their wars.It used to seem like a grand thing she was rebelling against. Now that I’m in her shoes, though, I just feel disgusted. “Wars” aren’t grand or awe-inspiring; they’re just bleeding gut wounds festering in abandoned French farms. Nothing grand or awe-inspiring about that.

“Those ‘squabbles’ would’ve had you chopped up into half a dozen different pieces if I didn’t intervene,” he growls.

“Again with the hero act. Do you ever give it a rest?”

“Not when it’s your neck on the line, Ariel.” His eyes, when I glance up, are burning icy blue.

I gulp and go rummaging back in the first aid kit, just to have something to do with my hands. We’re quiet for a little while.

“You should’ve told me you were pregnant,” he says softly. It’s not quite a reprimand, like I would’ve expected. It’s too soft for that. Almost… plaintive? Like he’s sad for the time he’s missed.

But fuck that. He doesn’t get to be sad. I didn’t make any choices that he didn’t force me into himself.

My hands go still. The warehouse breathes around us—wind through broken windows, the creak of Sasha’s jaw as he grinds his teeth.

“Would it have changed anything?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer.

I pack the wound with gauze, fingers stroking the hard planes of his stomach. His breath hitches. My own throat tightens.

Too close. Always too close.

“There.” I sit back, wiping bloody hands on my dress. “Try not to make it even worse.”

He catches my wrist as I stand. “Your turn.”

“For what?”

“You’re limping.”

I rip my wrist away from him and laugh right in his face. “I’m pregnant with twins, Sasha. Everything hurts.”

He stands in one fluid motion, crowding me against the wall. The splintered wood digs into my spine. His hands hover over my hips, not touching, but the heat of him seeps into my skin anyway.

---