“Oscar-worthy,” he returned with a trace of dry humor. “The near-fainting really brought it home.”
When we entered the house, he spoke in Russian to Yulia on the way to the dining room, where he set me on my feet.
He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”
Knowing what he was asking for, I brought my wrist to my chest protectively. “It’s really not that bad.”
“Then let me fucking see it.”
I sighed and complied. Ronan’s eyes on the wound made it throb, and I bit my lip to
hide a wince before saying, “I don’t suppose you have a Band-Aid around here?”
Ronan’s dark gaze met mine for a second with a sense of aggravation. “You need stitches.”
My stomach turned at the thought. I was already a strong breeze away from fainting; the pain of a needle sewing my skin back together would surely tip the scales.
“I want a second opinion,” I told him as if I’d just gotten bad news from a doctor.
He gave me a dry look, and when Yulia entered the room with a first-aid kit in hand, Ronan said something to her in Russian. She didn’t even glance at my wrist before announcing, “You need stitches, devushka.”
I glared at Ronan.
“Sit,” he demanded.
I plopped down in my chair.
Polina was next to join the party. She cast a curious glance at my wrist as if it was the most interesting thing to happen that morning. I didn’t see the cook often, but her Russian shouts after a loud clang of pots and pans were a daily occurrence.
When she set a filled plate in front of me, my stomach growled loudly. I was starving, though I was also made with two heaping cups of stubbornness. I thanked Polina but didn’t touch the food.
With a noise of frustration, Ronan grabbed my face and turned it to his. “You’re going to eat every goddamn crumb on that plate.”
I met his eyes. “I will if you promise you won’t do anything to Khaos.”
“I don’t have to promise you anything.”
Something told me he didn’t hand out promises often, and if I got one from him, he would uphold it.
“You don’t have to,” I said softly. “I’m asking you to.”
A long second passed, a muscle in his jaw ticking in thought. He was so close his eyes glimmered dark blue. I’d always thought he was insanely handsome, but now, the sight hit me like a blow to the chest, spreading warmth outward. Just the commanding pressure of his hand on my face dragged a hot net through my blood, sliding lower to the soreness between my legs. My lips parted, and his gaze dropped to my mouth before lifting back to my eyes.
“Your food strike is over,” he said harshly and waited for me to agree.
I nodded, my chest growing lighter with the realization he was compromising with me. His thumb brushed my cheek, and my body ached for him to draw the caress to my lips, which tingled in awareness.
“You’ll let Yulia stitch you up without a single complaint,” he continued.
Breathlessly, I nodded.
“And if I find out you’ve been anywhere near Khaos again”—his grip tightened—“not even a river of your tears will save him. Do you understand me?”
I pulled my lip between my teeth, liking that condition the least. Though keeping my distance from Khaos was better than the alternative. When I nodded, his hand slipped from my face, leaving a hot impression behind. I wanted a verbal promise, but the subtle look in his eyes seemed to be more than enough.
I just compromised with D’yavol.
My heart clenched with all kinds of naïve assumptions: Maybe this promise would open up another; maybe deep beneath Ronan’s hard shell, lay a wonderland made of chocolate; maybe I’d found his saving grace.