Page 38 of Possessive Vows

But he also doesn’t step away.

I shuffle forward and crane my neck back and up to look at his face.

His stormy expression rips the floor out from under me.

“You did not mention an injury. Show me,so´lnyshka,” he demands.

My insides melt as I realize he’s angryforme, not at me, and my arm lifts without my permission.

He shifts around me to better see and cups my elbow and wrist to hold me steady for his inspection.

“It is swollen. Let me care for you,” he says.

My Russian soon-to-be-husband may not know how to ask with sweet words and gentle tones, but his hard intensity is so honest I can’t deny him. Plus, the thought of letting either of my siblings tend to my wounds hurts my pride and makes me feel like a burden. I know I’m not, but I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to fight anymore today.

I nod.

Aurora stands to retrieve the first-aid kit, but I stop her.

“Can we borrow a bathroom for a minute? I don’t want to do this here,” I say.

She nods and leads us up the stairs to the guest bedroom at the back of the second floor, grabbing a first-aid box from the linen closet on the way.

My heart tries to pound out of my ribcage as she shuts the door behind her, leaving me alone with Dimitri for the first time since I agreed to marry him.

My nervousness is stupid. I spent an entire day and night in a crappy hotel room with him, but with everyone I care about down the hall, the separation somehow feels more intimate and scandalous.

This time, I also know he’ll put his hands on me. Already panic builds in my blood. As he pulls items out of the box and lays them out on the bed, I slip into the bathroom and pace from one side to the other.

I am safe. I am alive. I am loved. I am healing.

When repeating my mantra doesn’t help, I stop in front of the sink and turn on the cold water. Not wanting to take off my sweatshirt, I hesitate, but if I get it wet, Dimitri will probably give me his jacket to wear again.

I want that.

But I don’t want to give my siblings the wrong idea. Dimitri and I are not a love match, and pretending otherwise is too cruel for my sister’s tender heart.

I step back, pull my sweatshirt over my head, and hiss as my arm throbs from the movement.

The door opens. Dimitri’s massive body fills the frame. His intense blue eyes find mine.

My insides quake from a clash of fear and want.

He steps into the bathroom, making the space feel too small. I flinch when he lifts his hands, but he offers me ibuprofen on one palm and a bottle of water in the other.

I take them from him, willing my heart to return to my chest, and take the medicine.

“Why is the sink on?” he asks.

“For the swelling. The water is cold,” I say.

“Giorgio brought ice,” he says.

“Oh. Okay,” I flounder.

“I am sorry I intruded. You sounded hurt,” he says.

I flounder harder. Big, bad bratva men don’t apologize. Right? What parallel universe have I fallen into?

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