Chapter 16 Nadya
NADYA
My hands won't stop shaking.
The metallic taste of blood and vomit lingers in my mouth, though I didn't touch the courier.
I think I bit my tongue while I watched Xander drive that blade between his ribs or maybe while I was vomiting in the bathroom
I watched the man's eyes go wide, then empty.
I watched the red spread across pristine snow.
"Stop," Xander says without looking at me.
His voice cuts through the spiral of images playing behind my eyes.
It's like he can tell I'm replaying it in my mind over and over.
But I haven't spoken a word since he did it.
He moves to the bar and pours whiskey into a clean glass.
The amber liquid sloshes around as he crosses to me.
"Drink," he orders but my fingers land on the blood staining his coat and hand.
It's nauseating, terrifying, but I take the glass.
My fingers can't grip properly and I almost drop it.
The whiskey sloshes against the sides as I bring it to my lips.
The first sip burns.
The second makes my stomach revolt again.
I drop the glass and it shatters on the hardwood, whiskey and crystal spreading in all directions.
My knees hit the floor.
The what’s left of my stomach contents empties in violent waves, returning in acidic surges.
I can't stop.
Each time I think the nausea has passed, another wave crashes through me.
This time I didn't even make it to the toilet.
I can't breathe or move.
All I can do is clutch at my chest and retch while Xander holds my hair back.
I'm shaking, sobbing now uncontrollably, and my mind races. Irina will disown me.
I'll never see the children again.
And my mother—fuck.
She's watching over me wondering what the fuck got into her daughter.
Xander's hand touches my shoulder.
"You're in shock."
I want to argue, but my body betrays me with another round of retching.
Nothing comes up now except bile and mucus.
"Get up."
He pulls me to my feet, his grip firm but not rough.
"You need to get warm."
Every movement is difficult.
Just putting one foot in front of the other challenges me, but Xander must know what he's doing.
He guides me down the hall toward his bedroom.
My legs move without conscious thought, following his direction because I can't trust myself to make decisions.
The bathroom door opens, and he turns on the shower.
Steam begins to fill the space.
"Get in."
I stare at the water cascading down the glass walls.
"I can't—"
"You can."
His hands find the hem of my sweater, pulling it over my head before I can protest.
"The shock will pass. Your body needs heat."
He strips away my clothes, no trace of desire in his movements.
I stand naked and trembling as he tests the water temperature with his palm.
I'm so cold it hurts, and I'm stiff.
"Go," he orders with a push.
I step under the spray.
The heat hits my skin, but the shaking continues.
Water runs down my face, washing away tears.
I press my palms against the tile wall and let the shower beat against my head.
The courier's face won't leave my mind.
The way his mouth opened in surprise.
The way his hands reached for the wound as though he could push the blood back inside.
The way he crumpled.
I killed him too.
I stood there and watched and did nothing to stop it.
I am a murderer, just as heartless and evil as any other.
I watched him take a life and I did nothing to stop him.
I didn’t even scream.
I couldn’t.
My legs give out.
I slide down the tile until I'm sitting on the shower floor, water streaming over my head and shoulders.
The heat should comfort me, but I can't feel anything except the memory of cold air and spreading red.
The shower door opens.
Xander steps inside, still fully clothed.
Water soaks through his black shirt, plastering the fabric to his chest.
He kneels beside me, one hand cupping my face.
"Look at me."
I meet his eyes.
The gray appears almost silver under the bathroom lights.
"You didn't kill him."
"I watched you."
My voice breaks on the words.
"I stood there and watched and I didn't—"
"You didn't have a choice."
There's always a choice…
I think to myself but the words won't come.
His thumb traces my cheekbone.
"Ptichka," he whispers, and I see the concern in his face.
The water continues to fall around us as he starts to peel his wet shirt off.
The wound on his shoulder reminds me of how many times I've been given warnings from the universe that this man isn't someone I should be with.
But when I meet his gaze, I see the man I love.
A man I've made love to, one I have chosen time and time again.
I choke out a sob, and shake my head, covering my mouth.
"I don't know if I can live with this."
The admission tears out of me.
"I don't know if I can—"
"You can."
"How do you know?"
His free hand finds mine, fingers threading through mine.
"Because you were made for this. Made for me. And I won't let you go now."
The words aren't a declaration of love.
They carry no promises of gentleness or protection from the world he inhabits.
He can only speak in terms he knows, and it's startling how easily he can take a life.
How simple it was for him to wipe his blood clean on the coat of a dead man and walk away without shaking.
He shows no remorse.
But I know he feels.
I know his heart isn't a stone because I feel it when he kisses me.
And I need to feel something other than this terror or I'm going to snap and go insane.
I pull him toward me.
His mouth finds mine, and he doesn’t pull away though I'm sure I taste like vomit.
He responds with matching urgency, his hands tangling in my wet hair, and crushing my mouth to his.
"Nadya…"
His tongue claims me, forcing every thought of the courier out of my head.
My chest heaves with broken sobs against him, but he doesn’t relent.
He swallows the sounds, kisses me harder, until I’m drowning in something I can finally feel—his heat, his hunger.
“You’re safe, Ptichka,” he growls against my lips, water streaming down both of us.
His soaked shirt clings to him, plastered against my skin as he drags me upright.
My legs wobble, but his grip on my hips steadies me.
“I can’t—”
“You can,” he cuts me off, his hand sliding between my thighs.
Fingers part me with no hesitation, finding me raw, trembling, but already slick from need.
“You were made for me. Say it…"
I choke on a whimper as his thumb circles my clit, the rough pad teasing me until my knees buckle.
He pins me to the tile, his broad chest pressed to mine, his hard cock straining against wet denim.
“Say it,” he demands, teeth grazing the edge of my jaw.
“For you,” I gasp, clutching his shoulders as heat spreads through me.
His answering growl vibrates against my throat.
“That’s right. You were made for me.”
Two fingers slide inside, curling deep, finding the spot that makes me arch off the wall.
The shower pelts down, but I barely feel it—only the relentless thrust of his fingers, the steady pressure of his thumb.
I come undone far too quickly, my inner walls gripping and spasming around his fingers as white heat tears through me.
My raw cry ricochets off the glass walls, but he doesn’t relent.
He keeps driving into me with steady, merciless thrusts of his hand, stroking that tender spot until sparks explode behind my eyes.
My thighs quake uncontrollably, muscles seizing as if they can’t decide whether to clamp him in or push him out.
My hips jerk helplessly, grinding down into his palm for more, until I’m reduced to shaking whimpers and clinging to his soaked shirt just to keep from collapsing completely.
He leans close, water dripping from his hair into my face, his breath hot at my ear.
His voice drops low, steady, meant to anchor me.
“Breathe. Feel me holding you."
He kisses the corner of my mouth, coaxing rather than commanding, urging me out of my desperation.
Before I can breathe, he’s stripping out of soaked jeans, dragging them down with a curse.
His cock springs free, flushed at the tip.
He fists it once, eyes locking on mine.
“I’ll take care of you, Ptichka. I’ll hold you through all of it, and I won’t let you go until you know you’re safe with me.”
I nod, words lost as he lifts me, spreading my thighs around his hips.
The head of his cock nudges at me, sliding slowly through slick folds until I’m trembling with the ache of it.
He eases forward carefully, inch by inch, keeping his gaze on my face as though to make sure I stay with him.
The stretch is deep, filling, but his steady pace lets my body open around him instead of breaking apart.
His hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing my skin in reassurance as he presses fully inside.
“Xander—”
He swallows my cry with his mouth, grinding deeper until I feel stretched, filled, split apart.
My nails dig into his back as he sets a relentless rhythm, pressing me against the shower wall.
Every thrust punches a sob from my chest, but his lips catch them, turning pain into heat.
“Look at me, little bird” he whispers between kisses, his voice rough with need but steady enough to ground me.
“Let go for me. Hold on to me and nothing else. Right here, right now—it’s only us.”
I cry out as another orgasm builds slowly then overwhelms me, rippling through every nerve until my body shudders around him.
My inner muscles tighten and release in waves, pulsing around his length while heat floods me.
The pleasure leaves me gasping into his mouth, my cries swallowed by his steady kiss.
When it passes, I sag against him, chest heaving, the fog of shock finally breaking apart.
My thoughts clear enough to realize how fiercely I want him—not just his body but everything he is.
The man who terrifies the world is holding me gently, keeping me together when I’m falling apart.
The truth I’ve fought to bury claws its way free.
“I love you,” I whisper against his wet skin, the words spilling out before I can doubt them.
My lips brush his throat as I say it again, louder this time, carried by the desperate certainty in my chest.
“I love you, Xander.”