Page 67 of His Hold

I find myself listening for his footsteps, waiting for the low rumble of his voice, craving the stupid little arguments that always end with me wanting to slap him or kiss him.

I’m falling for him. It’s stupid and reckless, but it’s happening.

By the weekend, I attempt to surprise Nikolai with dinner. The kitchen gleams with high-end appliances I barely understand how to use. I’m chopping vegetables when the knife slips.

“Shit.” Blood wells from my finger. Not deep, but it stings.

Nikolai appears behind me. “You really do have a death wish,” he growls. “Can’t leave you alone for five damn minutes.”

“I was just cooking,” I snap, but there’s no heat to my words. “You act like I stabbed myself.”

“You’d probably do that, too,” he mutters, dragging me over to the sink. His hands are rough, but his touch is careful.

“You care,” I say before I can stop myself. “It’s just a cut.”

He freezes. “Of course, I care. You could’ve made it worse. I need you in one piece.”

“Why?”

He looks at me, his expression unreadable. “Because you’re mine to deal with.”

The words stick in my chest, refusing to settle. I should reprimand him for saying that. For thinking he can claim me like some possession. But all I feel is heat spreading through me until my hands shake.

I try to pull away. “But it is nothing.”

He examines the cut with careful precision. “Let me clean it.”

“It is barely a scratch.”

“Humor me.” He runs cool water over my finger, his touch unexpectedly gentle. “What were you doing anyway?”

“Trying to cook for you. Clearly failing spectacularly.”

His eyes soften. “You do not need to cook for me.”

“I wanted to thank you for Irina.”

He wraps a bandage around my finger with practiced ease. “You do not owe me anything.”

“I know. But I...” How do I tell him that everything I thought I knew about him was wrong? That the thing which started as a mission has turned into something else entirely? I have told him before, but how can I show him?

He lifts my bandaged finger to his lips, pressing a kiss there. “Next time, let me help with the knife work.”

“Are you offering to cook with me?”

“I am offering to keep you from bleeding all over my kitchen.”

I laugh, wrapping my arms around his neck. “My hero.”

His hands settle on my waist, pulling me closer. “A dangerous man to call hero.”

“Good thing I like dangerous.” I kiss him, slow and deep, trying to pour everything I cannot say into it.

He responds with equal intensity, backing me against the counter. When we break apart, his eyes burn with promise. “Dinner can wait.”

“Can it?” I arch against him deliberately.

“Unless you object?”

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