Page 56 of 10 Days to Surrender

I take a look at the tray he’s holding and grimace. “I’d rather chew the bedpan than eat another salad.”

“Unfortunately for you, while the bedpan is high in iron, it severely lacks in B-complex vitamins.” He sets the tray on my bedside table and settles into the chair where he’s taken up residence these days.

“I’m gonna turn into a huge ‘B-complex’ if you keep force-feeding me rabbit food.”

“Eat,” he growls, “or I’ll strap you to the bed.”

“That would change literally nothing. I’m here anyways, aren’t I?”

Sasha grins. “Now, you’re starting to understand.”

He spears some greens with a fork and holds it out to me. His face says,I dare you to say no.

“I can hold a damn fork, you know.”

“Prove it.” His smirk sharpens. “Move your arm without wincing.”

Bastard. The muscle strain from the fall still burns, but I’d rather swallow live bees than admit it. So, with no other choice, I part my lips. The fork’s edge presses against my tongue.

His eyes never leave mine.

“Happy?” I ask around the tang of radishes and carrots.

“Getting there.” The room dims as thunder rattles the villa. Sasha’s head snaps toward the window, shoulders tensing.

“It’s just a storm,” I remind him.

But he doesn’t relax. Shadows carve his profile into something feral, beautiful. A guard dog waiting to lunge.

The lights die.

I feel his weight shift before I see it—his body curving over mine, one arm braced against the headboard. The generators hum to life seconds later, revealing his knuckles white on the fork.

Only when his eyes meet mine again does he ease back into his chair.

He thrusts the next bite at me. I take it, defiant, even as heat pools low in my belly. Teacup steam fogs his scar when he offers it. Our fingers tangle on the porcelain. He strokes my wrist—once, fleeting—before retreating.

“I really am fine, you know. It’s basically been a week. I could get up and?—”

“You’re fine when I say you’re fine,” he snarls.

The words would sound tyrannical from anyone else. But I’ve learned to read the undertones of fear in Sasha’s voice, the way his growl roughens when he’s worried. It makes me want to simultaneously soothe him and smother him with a pillow.

“Sasha. Seriously. I’m okay. Let me at least feed myself.”

He glares at me for a second. But then he sighs. “Fine. But when I come back to get that tray, it better be gone.”

I throw him a sloppy salute. “Sir, yes, sir. And when you say, ‘Jump,’ I’ll say, ‘How high?’“

He returns my salute with a one-fingered salute of his own. Then he turns to leave, though not without a last, meaningful glance at the salad.

When the door clicks shut behind him, though, I immediately abandon the tasteless shrubbery and pick up the journal fromunderneath my pillow. Page one has a list I’ve been working on all week.

Pros of Letting Sasha Ozerov Back Into My Life:

Obnoxiously good-looking.

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