Chapter 19 – Isabella #2
A fluttery feeling settled in my belly, and I tipped my head and stared at him as surprise momentarily cut through my misery. “You are a proper Jane Austen aficionado, aren’t you?”
He grinned, a dangerous half grin that made him look deceptively harmless. “It was either Jane Austen or Mary Shelley,” he replied with unexpected humor. “And I’m deathly afraid of monsters.”
A weak laugh escaped me, then turned into a groan as my stomach protested the movement.
But something warm, which had nothing to do with the side effects of the drugs, spread through my chest. This glimpse of mutual understanding, this shared interest, felt strangely comforting.
More and more like an inside joke between friends, not enemies.
Enemies? Who was I kidding? I hadn’t seen Ivan Zotov as my enemy for a while now.
“Arms up,” he instructed, his tone gentle but firm.
I tried again, and he helped me pull the T-shirt over my head.
Cool air hit my bare skin, and I shivered violently.
I was naked except for my underwear, but his gaze remained fixed on my face, his expression professionally detached.
Though, for all I knew, he might’ve looked his fill when I was unconscious. “Can you stand?” he asked.
I nodded though I wasn’t entirely sure. He helped me to my feet, steadying me when I swayed dangerously. My legs felt like they might give out at any moment.
“Lean on me,” he said, guiding one of my arms around his shoulders while his arm circled my waist.
Together, we shuffled the few steps to the shower. The warm spray hit my skin, and I gasped at the sensation—half pain, half relief.
He kept his arm around me, supporting most of my weight as the water cascaded over us both. He was still fully dressed, his shirt and pants soaked through instantly.
“You’re getting your clothes wet,” I mumbled, stating the obvious.
He pulled me closer. “Observant as always, Shorty,” he replied, but there was no bite to his words. “Just say the word, and I’ll strip for you.”
We locked eyes, and for a moment, I could see desire darken his eyes before he shut his emotions down and went back to being detached.
“Hold onto my neck,” he said, then reached for the shampoo with his free hand, pouring some into his palm before working it gently into my hair.
His fingers moved in slow, careful circles against my scalp, mindful of the healing wound at my temple.
The simple touch was so unexpectedly tender that I had to close my eyes and lean against his chest to hide the fresh wave of emotion.
How was this the same man who jumped from a helicopter and chased me through that damn fence? Who had handcuffed me to him in that cabin? Who had used me and my sister as leverage against my brother?
Yet his hands, which I was sure were capable of lethal efficiency, now moved with such gentleness, it made my throat tight. He rinsed my hair, then reached for the soap, his movements clinical but careful as he helped me wash up.
I stood there, my arms around his neck, and let the warm water sluice over me while watching him through half-lidded eyes.
His white T-shirt, soaked and see-through, clung to the defined muscles of his chest and arms. Water dripped from his dark hair, running in rivulets down his face and along his tattoos.
I looked up, watched him, and despite his best efforts to maintain professional detachment, I caught hunger flaring briefly in his eyes before he controlled it.
He was holding back. Respecting boundaries I hadn’t even thought to establish. This man, who could have taken advantage of my vulnerability in a hundred different ways, was instead treating me with more care than I’d received from anyone in recent memory…apart from him.
The realization shook something loose inside me.
The monster I’d constructed in my mind—the cold, calculating kidnapper who saw me as nothing but leverage—didn’t match the man at all.
No. This man quoted Jane Austen and admitted to being afraid of monsters. This man stood fully clothed in a shower, getting soaked to the skin, just to make sure I didn’t fall.
When he finally turned off the water, I felt cleaner but still chilled to the bone. Ivan wrapped me in a thick towel, then rubbed my arms briskly to generate warmth.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded though my teeth were still clattering. “But still c-cold.”
“Back to bed then,” he said, already moving to lift me.
“Wait,” I said when my gaze drifted to the large tub in the corner of the bathroom. The thought of immersing myself in truly hot water was suddenly all I could focus on. “Could I…”
I didn’t need to finish the sentence. Ivan followed my gaze and understood immediately. He sighed and shook his head slightly, but without a word, he settled me back onto the closed toilet seat again and wrapped the towel more securely around me. “Even in your state, you’re out to torture me.”
I looked up and stared into his dark eyes. “Torture you? I think it’s more the other way around.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t move, and if you feel dizzy, tell me immediately.”
I nodded and watched as he moved to the tub and started running the water. Steam rose almost immediately, filling the bathroom with humid warmth. He tested the temperature with his hand, adjusting the taps until he was satisfied.
“How did you know?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
He glanced back at me, one eyebrow raised in question.
“That I wanted a bath,” I clarified.
Something like a smile touched his lips. “With you staring at that tub like that.”
I had, but I didn’t say anything. Yet he had noticed, had read what I needed before I mentioned it. The attentiveness was…disarming.
Suddenly, I remembered the moment in the cabin, right before he’d fed me soup. Didn’t he mention something about if I were his woman, he would run a hot bath for me? Would he remember, as well?
When the tub was half-full, Ivan returned to me and crouched to meet my eyes. “How are we doing?”
I wanted to say I could manage alone and suppressed another violent shiver. “I feel much better already.”
He stared at me for at least five seconds, then nodded. He cupped my cheek, then let go. “Let me get changed into something dry. But wait until I’m back before you move. I’ll help. Okay?”
I nodded, then waited until he was outside before I slowly got up to a stand. See, that wasn’t so bad. I took a step, but the room swayed alarmingly. I clutched at the sink but sadly pushed the glass of water he’d placed there earlier over the edge.
It hit the floor and splintered, and thousands of shards were everywhere.
He was by my side in a millisecond, lifted me into his arms, and set me back down on the toilet. “Damn, Shorty, I told you to fucking wait.”
He stormed outside, came back with a broom and a vacuum.
Ivan muttered under his breath as he swept up the larger shards of glass, then followed with the vacuum to catch the tiny fragments. I watched him from my perch on the toilet seat, the towel clutched around me, feeling utterly useless and frustrated with my own weakness.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice small.
He glanced up, his expression softening slightly. “It’s not your fault. The drugs are probably still affecting your coordination.”
When the floor was clean, he straightened and ran a hand through his damp hair, leaving it standing in disheveled spikes. His soaked clothes clung to him, and water pooled at his feet. He looked at the bath, then at me, calculation clear in his eyes.
“You can’t get in there alone,” he said finally. “You’ll drown.”
I wanted to argue, but we both knew he was right. I could barely stand, let alone safely navigate a slippery bathtub.
He seemed to come to a decision. “There’s only one way.”
“What?”
“I’ll join you,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Take it or leave it. But that’s the only way you’ll get into this bathtub.”
He stared at me, and I stared back at him.
Though he wasn’t waiting for my permission.
He peeled off his wet shirt, revealing the muscular torso I’d glimpsed before.
Scars marked his skin—clearly from violence—but covered by the large tattoo running from his throat all the way down the right side of his arm, side, chest, and stomach, intricate and beautiful in its complexity… and massive.
My finger itched to trace the lines, study it in detail.
He blocked my view when he turned away to hang his shirt. He raised his right arm, which was covered in ink, as well—a full sleeve all the way down to the back of his hand.
He removed his pants, and after a glimpse of his glutes, I turned my eyes back to the tub, maintaining what little privacy was possible in the small bathroom. When I faced him again, he wore only black boxer briefs that clung to his powerful thighs.
Despite my weakened state, heat suddenly coursed through me.
He’d looked sexy at the pool, but seeing him without a shirt was just next-level.
Maybe taking a bath with Ivan Zotov wasn’t the smartest thing to do.
Too late now.
He came over, lifted me into his arms, then carried me over and slowly lowered me into the deliciously hot water.
The tub was large, but Ivan was larger, his broad frame taking up considerable space as he slipped in behind me. I tensed as his legs slid alongside mine, his chest a wall of heat at my back.
“Lean back,” he instructed, his voice low near my ear. “Let’s get you warm.”
I hesitated for a second before I relaxed against him, my back pressing against his chest. His arms came around me, not confining but protectively holding me steady in the water. The position was intimate yet oddly calming, given our state of undress.
He made no move to touch me beyond what was necessary to keep me upright and wrapped in his arms. And even though I wouldn’t have protested if he’d pulled me closer, I admired his self-discipline.