Chapter 11 Xander #2
She sucks in a breath when she sees the reopened gunshot site, touching the inflamed skin with gentle fingers.
"This is infected," she hisses in disapproval.
"You should be in a doctor's office or polyclinic, not getting second-rate cleanup in a filthy house."
"Those sorts of places keep records. Records create problems."
It's my turn to hiss as she presses on the wound with gauze meant to stave off the bleeding.
"Problems don't matter if you're dead from sepsis."
She opens a bottle of antiseptic and douses a slip of gauze in it before cleaning the wound.
Then she turns to retrieve a few pills from the bag of wonders she's brought.
"Take these now and two more tonight. No alcohol, no strenuous activity with that arm for at least a week."
"I don't have a week for rest," I protest, but I take the pills and dry swallow them.
"Then you'll have eternity for rest when this infection reaches your bloodstream."
She soaks another cloth with antiseptic and continues cleaning the wound.
"Hold still and let me work."
Her touch is gentle but thorough, removing dried blood and examining for signs of complications.
I watch her face while she works, noting the concentration that furrows her brow and the way she bites her lower lip when focusing on difficult tasks.
"You're good at this," I tell her, and it's torture not reaching up to touch her.
I resist, but I know what's coming.
The chemistry between us is too virulent to stop.
"Anatomy classes and first aid training. Plus watching Irina patch up everyone in our building when they can't afford doctors."
She applies antibiotic ointment to the cuts.
"Being poor teaches practical skills."
"You're not poor anymore."
"No, I'm a criminal instead. Much better situation."
But she smiles slightly when she says it, taking some of the sting from the sarcasm in her words.
I reach up to touch her face, thumb brushing across her cheek.
She doesn't pull away, instead leaning into the contact while her eyes flutter closed.
"You could leave," I tell her quietly.
"Take the money I've paid you and disappear with your family."
"Could I?"
She opens her eyes to meet mine.
"Would you let me go if I tried?"
I don't think the question is sincere, but I consider it thoughtfully.
The rational answer is yes—cutting ties with her would eliminate complications and allow focus on completing Markov's mission.
But rationality has little influence over my actions where she's concerned.
"No," I admit.
"I wouldn't let you go."
"I know."
She continues bandaging my shoulder with steady hands.
"That's why I stopped thinking about leaving."
Her confession makes heat spool out through my chest.
She's accepted her place in my world, acknowledged the bond between us that grows stronger despite every rational objection.
The knowledge makes me want to claim her again, to reinforce my ownership over her body and mind.
She starts to pull her hand away, but I catch her wrist and hold it in place.
"Stay close," I tell her.
"I'm right here." Nadya's confused laugh makes heat creep into her cheeks and I smile at how innocent she seems in all of this.
Still, after everything she's seen me do, she is so pure.
"Closer."
I pull her against my side, feeling her body relax into mine.
"Much closer."
She doesn't resist when I kiss her, instead melting into the contact with a soft sigh.
The taste of her mouth erases the afternoon's violence, replacing all that negative emotion with warmth and desire.
My hands tangle in her hair while she presses closer.
"Your injuries," she murmurs against my lips.
"Are healing fine."
I kiss her throat, feeling her pulse quicken under my mouth.
"Doctor's orders were no strenuous activity, but I can think of activities that aren't strenuous."
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating through her chest where it touches mine.
"I don't think that's the right way to look at this…"
"Medical interpretation varies depending on the patient."
I stand and take her hand, pulling her as I back toward the bedroom.
"Let me show you my understanding of proper recovery techniques."
Nadya follows me into the bedroom, still in jeans and the sweater she wore.
I’m shirtless already, stitches bleeding again, but I don’t care.
I want her.
She hovers by the edge of the bed like she might argue, but I don’t give her the chance.
I push her back onto the mattress and climb over her, my hands braced beside her head.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she says, breath catching when I grind against her.
“This is rest,” I answer, dragging my mouth down her throat.
“Good medicine.”
She shoves at my good shoulder, but it isn’t serious.
Her legs shift under me, knees parting, giving me room.
I kiss her harder, forcing her lips open until she moans into my mouth.
My hand slides under her sweater, finding warm skin, the tight line of her stomach.
She trembles, not from fear, but from how badly she wants me.
“Take it off,” I order.
She strips the sweater over her head and tosses it aside.
Her bra is plain cotton, nothing fancy, but the sight of her breasts pressed together when I pull the fabric down has me cursing against her skin.
I bite at the swell of one until she gasps and grips my hair.
“Always so rough,” she whispers, but her voice is thick with need.
“You like it.”
I yank at the button of her jeans, undoing them fast.
She lifts her hips to help me drag them down, legs kicking free until she’s lying there in her underwear.
My cock strains against my trousers.
I shove them down one-handed while I keep kissing her hungrily.
When I slip my fingers under her panties, she’s already wet.
I push two inside her and she jerks, eyes squeezing shut as her body arches off the mattress.
“Fuck,” she hisses, clamping a hand over her mouth.
I grab her wrist and pull it away.
“Don’t hide it. I want to hear you.”
Her moan spills out when I curl my fingers inside her, hitting that spot that makes her thighs shake.
She clutches at my arm, nails digging into my skin.
“Say my name,” I growl.
“Xan—” Her voice breaks, breathless.
I work her until she’s shuddering under me, panting hard.
Her thick walls squeeze my digits as I thrust into her and she writhes and moans over and over.
Every pulse of her climax makes my cock harder, and I manage to kick my pants the rest of the way off before I drag my hand out and lick her off my fingers, holding her gaze.
“You taste better than anything I’ve had in this city.”
“God, you’re filthy,” she says, cheeks flushed, but her eyes are dark with want.
“Filthy for you.”
I tear her panties down and push her thighs wide.
My cock slides against her entrance, slick from her orgasm, and I press in, savoring the stretch.
She gasps, her hands clutching my shoulders, pulling me deeper.
She’s tight around me, heat gripping every inch as I sink deeper.
Her nails dig into my shoulders and she gasps my name, trying to catch her breath.
I pull back slowly, then slam forward hard enough to make the headboard knock against the wall.
Her cry fills the room.
“Too much?” I taunt, though I already know her answer.
“Don’t stop,” she pants, wrapping her legs around my waist and pulling me in again.
That’s all the permission I need.
I set a pace that makes her body jolt with every thrust, steady and hard, not giving her time to recover.
Sweat slides down my spine.
She clutches at me like she’s drowning, her teeth grazing my jaw before she moans into my ear.
“Harder.”
“Greedy little thing,” I growl, grabbing her wrists and pinning them over her head.
She squirms, but it only makes her tighter.
I drive into her again, rough enough that her head tips back and her mouth falls open.
“You’re mine, Nadya. Every part of you.”
“Yes,” she gasps, voice breaking. “Yours.”
Her agreement sparks something wild in me.
I pound into her, hips snapping.
Her breasts bounce with each thrust, nipples hard against my chest.
I lower my mouth and suck one into my teeth, making her arch and scream.
Her whole body is trembling, close to breaking again.
I feel the way she tightens around me, the quick spasms building as her orgasm claws up her spine.
I don’t let up.
I want to push her over the edge and watch her fall apart on my cock.
“Come for me,” I order, biting at her throat.
“Right now.”
She obeys, shattering under me with a scream that tears out of her throat.
Her legs lock around my waist, her pussy convulsing, squeezing me so tight I nearly lose it inside her.
I fuck her through every wave of it, grinding deeper, dragging out the peak until she’s sobbing my name against my shoulder.
The way she milks me is too much.
I slam into her one last time and let go, spilling inside her in hot, pulsing bursts.
My groan is low and guttural, muffled against her neck.
I keep moving, slower now, pumping every last drop into her before collapsing on top of her, both of us drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
She strokes my back with shaky fingers, her breaths still uneven.
“You’re insane,” she whispers, but there’s no judgment in it.
Only satisfaction.
“Insanity keeps me alive,” I mutter against her skin, still buried deep inside her.
We stay tangled together, my weight holding her down, her hands tracing lazy patterns across my shoulders.
I kiss her one more time, slow and rough, before finally rolling onto my side and pulling her against me.
She fits against my chest, warm and spent.
“Now that,” I murmur, brushing my lips over her hair, “is recovery.”
"We can't keep doing this," she says quietly.
"What part? The medical care or the aftermath?"
"All of it. This whole situation." She props herself up on one elbow to look at me.
"I can't keep lying to my family while falling deeper into your world."
"Then don't lie anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"Tell them the truth. That you work for me now, completely. That this is your life whether they approve or not."
I pull her closer, ignoring the protest from my shoulder.
"They'll adjust to the new reality."
"And if they don't? If Irina tries to take the children and disappear?"
"Then I'll find them and bring them back. Family stays together, Ptichka. I protect what belongs to my people."
I reach up and curl a stray hair around her ear.
She stares at me for a long moment, probably weighing my words against her knowledge of what I'm capable of accomplishing.
It's not difficult—I have resources and connections that make hiding from me nearly impossible.
"You're asking me to burn every bridge to my old life."
"I'm asking you to acknowledge that your old life already burned. This is who you are now. This is where you belong."
I kiss her forehead gently.
"With me."
She doesn't respond immediately, but she doesn't pull away either.
Progress is measured in small acceptances rather than grand declarations.
Eventually, she'll understand that fighting the inevitable only causes unnecessary pain.
For now, holding her while Moscow darkens outside the windows feels close enough to victory.