Chapter 6 Nadya #2
Muscles in his arms and chest contract with each wave of pain, revealing the full extent of his physical power.
And I find my eyes wandering, taking in the bronzed skin of his chest and stomach.
Scars cover his torso in patterns that tell stories of previous violence.
Knife wounds, bullet tracks, burn marks from cigarettes or heated metal.
A lifetime of brutality is mapped across his skin, covered by thick, dark swaths of ink he's used to cover it up.
I feel it pull to me, demanding that I notice.
"Hold still," I murmur while threading a needle.
"This will hurt."
"Everything hurts tonight."
He spits out the belt and watches me prepare to suture the wounds.
"Just get it done."
I begin stitching the entry wound first, trying to ignore how my proximity to his body affects my concentration.
He radiates heat and danger in equal measure, a masculine presence that makes my pulse race despite every rational objection my mind produces.
And I can't quite get the right angle to see properly in this light without being so close my leg is pressing against his.
"Here," he grunts, gripping my hips and repositioning me until I stand with one leg on either side of his knees, straddling him so I can bend over his torso.
It makes warmth rush to my groin.
He's powerful, strong enough that he could steal what he wants from me if he so chose.
But he's gentle, not even so much as touching me inappropriately, though I notice his eyes looking down the front of my sweater which hangs open to give him a full view of my chest.
Fourteen years separate us.
He murders people for a living.
He threatened to kill my family if I disobey his orders.
Every logical reason to fear and avoid him, yet working this close to his half-naked torso creates physical responses I can't control.
My hand brushes against his chest while positioning the bandage, and I feel his body tense beneath my touch.
He feels the sexual tension too.
When I glance at his face, his eyes are fixed on mine and all I see is a lusty haze there.
The recognition sends heat through my body until I'd swear my panties were soaked.
I look away quickly and focus on securing the bandage, but my awareness of his physical presence intensifies rather than diminishes.
"Turn around so I can treat the exit wound," I tell him.
He complies silently, standing in front of me so he towers over me, then turning to sit again, presenting his back for examination.
He has more scars here, layered evidence of a life spent in violence.
I clean and suture the second wound while trying not to think about how his muscles move under my hands, how his breathing changes when I touch him.
"Finished," I announce, stepping back to examine my work.
Xander stands and tests the range of motion in his injured arm.
The bandages hold securely, no fresh bleeding visible through the gauze.
But the painful grimace on his face makes me wince too.
I'm feeling sympathy for this monster.
What the fuck is happening to me?
"Acceptable," he says, the same evaluation he gives my cleaning work.
Relief floods through me at the approval.
I begin gathering my supplies while he pulls on a fresh shirt, careful not to disturb the bandages.
And I have to keep my eyes from looking at him again or noticing how he looks at me.
I'm not foolish enough to accept his offer for "work" every night, but given how vulnerable I am right now, if he made a move, God help me, I'm not sure if I could resist him tonight.
It's a horrible thought, and one I shouldn’t be having, but here I am thinking of what I might have said if his hand had touched me inappropriately while I doctored him.
"Payment for tonight's work."
He hands me another stack of rubles, smaller than previous amounts but still substantial.
I take the money without counting it and avoid looking him in the eye.
This isn't the type of work I thought, but the money is good.
Still, I almost feel bad accepting it.
He needs real medical care.
I'm not a doctor, and I know he's going to be in pain for a while.
"When will you call again?" I ask, keeping my head down.
"When I need you."
The standard answer that could mean hours or days or weeks.
"Keep the phone charged and answer immediately."
"Of course," I say, but I don't move instantly.
Normally, I try to leave as quickly as possible, but I stand here feeling like we have unfinished business.
"You can go," he says, but he doesn't move away either.
"I know," I tell him. "I, uh…"
Something on the tip of my tongue lingers, and I have an insane inward desire for him to make that offer again, the one where he needs me to work regular hours every night.
But I can't say that.
It would be my death for sure if I got involved with a man nearly twice my age who kills people for fun.
"Then why are you still here, Ptichka? Fly away…"
He steps closer until his chest brushes against the back of my arm.
"Before the Khishchnik devours you for dinner."
The words don't sound like a threat, though.
And they make heat pool at my core as I imagine this terrifying man with his face between my legs, devouring me.
"Goodnight," I say, almost a whisper, and I walk away.
Because I have a feeling that I would enjoy that far too much, and judging simply by the condition of his physique, I have no doubt he really would devour me, body, soul, and spirit.
And that's the last thing I need right now.