I look at the shower stall, then at the sling holding my right arm immobilized against my side. Could I manage a shower? Maybe not a full-blown hair washing, but at least a quick rinse…
A rapping on the door ends my musings. “Zaychik, you done? Can I come in?”
“Yeah, okay.” I try not to cringe in embarrassment as he approaches me, all clean and well-dressed and stunningly handsome. In comparison, I’m in a hospital gown that I’ve sweated through during the nightmare, looking—and probably smelling—like I haven’t showered in weeks.
I must glance longingly at the stall again because Nikolai asks, “Would you like a bath?”
A bath? That sounds even more heavenly than a shower. Just the thought of submerging my bruises and aching muscles in hot water makes me want to moan out loud.
Nikolai reads the answer on my face. “I’ll prep it for you while you eat,” he says with a smile and scoops me up to carry me back to bed, where a tray of covered dishes is already sitting on the nightstand.
Carefully depositing me on the mattress, he arranges me against the mound of pillows and uncovers one of the dishes. A rich, savory aroma fills the room, making me salivate. It’s Russian-style garlic potatoes with mushrooms, the ones I’d happily stuff my face with every day if I could.
While I’m drooling in anticipation, he uncovers the rest of the offerings on the tray, including a Greek salad with crispy lettuce and plump black olives, a platter of roast duck with poached pears, and buttered baguette slices with black caviar.
It’s official: Pavel is back in the kitchen. His wife’s cooking is nowhere near as fancy or good.
What amazes me is that Nikolai managed to assemble everything and get it up here while I was in the bathroom. He must’ve flown downstairs and back, Superman style.
“Pavel brought this up,” he says, once again picking up on my thoughts. It’s uncanny how he does that—how he’s always been able to do it. From the moment we met, I’ve had the unsettling sensation that he can see straight into my brain, viewing my most private fears and desires.
It’s as if we really are joined by those threads of fate he’s talked about, connected on a level that’s far deeper than the short length of our relationship should allow.
But no. I’m not buying that—especially not now that I know what kind of man he is. It’s bad enough I can’t extinguish the sexual chemistry that burns between us like wildfire, nor forget the crush I’d developed on him before I learned the truth. To believe that we’re somehow meant for each other, that this can be something lasting and real, would be beyond foolish.
There’s no such thing as fate, and even if there were, I can’t be fated to love a monster.
“Here, zaychik,” the monster in question says, setting a plate filled with a little bit of everything on my lap and handing me a fork. His gorgeous mouth curves in a warm smile. “Start eating while I run you a bath.”
My chest squeezes tight as he gently brushes his fingers over my ear, extracting the twig I’d noticed earlier, and walks out of the room—presumably to draw me a bath in his bathroom, where there’s an enormous tub. We took a bubble bath there last night after he’d worn me out with the hottest, most intense sex of my life.
A wave of scorching heat moves through me at the memory, adding to the aching tightness in my chest. I close my eyes, willing the feeling away, but it’s futile.
The arousal that electrifies my body is nothing compared to the desperate craving in my heart.
* * *
By the time Nikolai returns a few minutes later, I’ve gotten myself under control and am working on devouring all the food on my plate. It’s a little awkward, eating with my left hand, but I’m so hungry I’d eat with my feet if I had to.
“Here, zaychik, let me help you,” Nikolai says, taking the fork from me after I drop a piece of mushroom onto my chest. Ignoring my objections, he feeds me as if I were a clumsy toddler—which, to be fair, I might as well be right now—and when I’m so stuffed I can’t swallow another bite, he pats my lips with a napkin, carries the tray away, and returns a couple of minutes later with the announcement that the bath is ready.
To my surprise, Lyudmila comes into my room behind him, her face carefully neutral as Nikolai picks me up and carries me out past her. “She’ll change the sheets while you’re bathing,” he explains, walking down the hallway with long, easy strides, as if my weight in his arms were nothing.
He’s strong, this captor of mine.
So strong I should be far more terrified than I am.