Page 32 of Brutal Promise

Last night we were two strangers hooking up for sex. Was it only the raw chemistry between us pulling us together, or did neither of us want to be alone?

Izzy sits on the bed.

I remove my dirty boots quickly and leave them. I doubt she wants to see them again. I pull my gun out and lay it on my nightstand.

“We’ll need to get clothes tomorrow. I don’t want you returning to your apartment.”

“Um, that’s going to be an issue. Is there any way someone can get them?”

“It’s too risky. You’ll go shopping. Don’t worry about the cost.” I move around to her side of the bed and pull back the duvet. She bends over to take her boots off.

I’m compelled to take care of her.

“I’ll do that.”

“I can do it,” she argues.

“I’m taking care of you tonight.”

I take over and unlace her boots, tugging them off her dainty feet and setting them aside.

“You should change your shirt,” she murmurs.

“Mm, probably,” I reply.

“I’ll help.”

“No, I’m fine,” I say, raising my arms to grab the top of my long-sleeved Henley and suppress a wince. It’s stuck to the four-by-four bandage the doctor used to cover my stitches.

“Let me help, seriously.” She huffs and stands. She’s stubborn, and I know she won’t rest until I let her help me. She gently pries my shirt off the bandage. “I never got an update on your bullet wound.”

“It exited, no major damage.”

“The bandage is full of blood. You don’t want an infection.” She inspects the bandage as if she’s a nurse. “I’ll take care of it.”

Why am I agreeing? I grew up in Russia. We didn’t even have bandages. When you don’t have what you need, you make do. When you need help, and no one else is around, you learn how to do it yourself.

“I’m pulling it,” she warns. Her sleepy eyes meet mine for a second, and we both look at the bandage.

“Don’t yank at it,” I say as I try to help.

She fiddles with the sticky side of the white gauze until my shirt breaks free. I swiftly pull the shirt over my head and throw it to the floor. I’ll get it later.

“It’s fine,” I reassure her. “I’ll get supplies in the bathroom. I’m sure something is lying around. I’ve been through worse.” I turn to look at my shoulder, and we’re so close I could kiss her lovely lips. I want to, but it’s late. “You. Lay down.”

She finally listens and gets into bed. As she lays her weary head on the pillow, I notice dark rings under her beautiful eyes.

“I’ll have food brought in for later. Get some sleep. You’re safe here.” I tell myself that the kindness in her eyes isn’t for me. There’s no way she cares about me. I am unlovable, cruel, and brutal. She witnessed it first-hand.

What is hard to resist is my body. What I lack in charm, I more than make up for with a physique most men envy. Even though it hurts my bad leg, I work through the pain and deadlift weights. I have to stay strong, and I’ve built up my thighs so much that they rub together when I walk, altering my gait.

Izzy closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep within minutes.

I head to the bathroom, pick my torn and blood-soaked shirt off the floor and drop it in the motion-operated garbage can. I turn on the shower, and I step in and look for soap when the water is hot enoug and look for soap. I find a cardboard box with a label that reads,all-natural soap made with goat’s milk and lightly scented. I sniff it and find it refreshing. What will Americans think of next?

It lathers well and leaves no residue, only a clean, minty scent. I do my best to keep my stitches out of the water and pat the area dry before toweling off the rest of my body.

I dress in jeans and a crewneck shirt of stretchy material I find comfortable and realize I need to figure out dinner. Kirill said I could trust Anton to run errands and gave me his number. I take in the light rise and fall of her chest. Izzy is sleeping. I could stand here all night and watch her, but we need food.

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