I dry myself off with a fluffy white towel; then I grab another one and wrap it around Sara as she steps out of the shower. She looks like she’s on the verge of shattering, her hazel eyes glittering with painful brightness, and despite the lust consuming me, I feel something close to pity.
She must hate herself right now. Almost as much as she hates me.
I rub the towel up and down her body, drying her, then wrap it around her wet hair. I know I’m treating her like a child instead of the grown woman that she is, but taking care of her calms me, helps me keep the darker impulses under control.
Helps me remember I don’t truly want to hurt her.
Bending down, I swing her up into my arms, and she lets out a startled gasp. “What are you doing?” She pushes at my chest. “Put me down!”
“In a second.” Ignoring her attempts to wriggle away, I carry her out of the bathroom. She’s light, easy to carry. It’s as if her bones are hollow, like those of an actual bird. She’s fragile, my Sara, but resilient at the same time.
If I’m careful, she’ll bend for me instead of breaking.
Reaching the bed, I put her down, and she grabs the blanket, pulling it over herself to cover her nakedness. Her gaze is filled with desperation as she scrambles backward on the bed, away from me.
“Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you find some other woman to torture?”
“You know why, ptichka.” Climbing onto the bed, I yank the blanket out of her grasp. “I have no interest in anyone else.”
She jumps off the bed, clearly forgetting the futility of running from me, and I leap after her, catching her before she makes it to the door. My blood is pumping thickly in my veins, the monster rearing up as she struggles in my arms, and it takes all of my self-control not to crush her against a wall and fuck her raw.
If it weren’t for the fact that I don’t want our first time to be like that, I would already be inside her.
“Stop fighting,” I grit out when she continues to writhe in my arms, trying to get away. I can feel my control unraveling, my cock reacting to her twisting movements as if to a lap dance. “I’m warning you, Sara…”
She freezes, comprehending the danger she’s in.
I inhale slowly, then release her and step back to minimize the temptation. “Get into bed,” I say harshly as she stands there, panting. “We’re going to sleep, understand?”
Her eyes widen. “You’re not going to—?”
“No,” I say grimly. Stepping forward, I take her arm to usher her to the bed. “Not tonight.”
No matter how torturous it will be, I’ll give Sara more time to get used to me. It’s the least I can do to make up for our violent beginning.
She’ll be mine soon, but not yet.
Not until I can be sure I won’t destroy her.
* * *
“Are you awake, Papa? Come play with me.” A small hand tugs at my wrist. “Please, Papa, come play.”
“Let your papa sleep,” Tamila chides, rising up on her elbow on the other side of the bed. “He got in late last night.”
I roll over onto my back and sit up, yawning. “It’s okay, Tamilochka. I’m up.” Leaning down, I pick up my son and stand up, lifting him at the same time. Pasha squeals in excitement, his small legs kicking in the air as I hold him above my head.
“You’re way too indulgent with him,” Tamila mutters, then gets up also, throwing on a robe over her pajamas. “I’ll go make us breakfast.”
She disappears into the bathroom, and I grin at Pasha. “You want to play, pupsik?” I throw him in the air and catch him, causing him to erupt in shrieks of excited laughter. “Like this?” I throw him again.
“Yeah!” He’s laughing so hard now he’s practically chortling. “More! Higher!”
I laugh, then throw him in the air a few more times, ignoring the pain in my bruised ribs. I spent the last week hunting down a group of insurgents, and we finally found them yesterday. In the resulting gunfight, I caught a couple of bullets in my vest. Nothing serious, but I could use a few slow days. Still, I wouldn’t miss this playtime for the world.
My son is growing up too fast as is.
I wake up with a bittersweet ache swelling my chest. I don’t need to open my eyes to know where I am, or to realize I was dreaming. The pain of losing Pasha is too sharp, too deeply embedded for me to mistake the dream-memory for anything else, though it is the first time I’ve experienced a pleasant dream so vividly.
Usually, my dreams about my family are soft and blurry—at least until they turn into graphic nightmares.