Chapter 18
Irelynn
Gripping the handrail, I feel Luka’s hand at the small of my back as a, “Easy,” falls into the space between us.
I only had one drink, but it had been strong. I’m thinking it’d been a double, because one drink shouldn’t make the stairs suddenly appear to be doing the wave. I mutter, “The stairs are moving.”
Luka chuckles. “No, they’re not.”
Scowling, I whip my head in his direction. “You don’t see that? This place is like a fun house of horrors.”
The bark of laughter that pushes abruptly from his chest has my head tipping to the side. “You have a nice smile.”
His amusement turns to horror. “Don’t say that.”
“Why? You’re like a big teddy bear.”
He curses low under his breath. “Let’s just get you to Ilya, yeah?”
My shoulders slump, even as my heart picks up speed. The organ is a traitorous one. “He’s a monster.”
“He’s—”
“See! Even you think he’s a monster.” He steadies me when I begin the bodily sway to pitch myself over the handrail. Oh, what a way to go.
“Ilya is,” he pulls in breath. “I think you would be surprised, if you gave him a chance. With you he’s…”
Suddenly, it’s like I can’t breathe. “With me he’s what?”
“Different. Softer.”
I snort a laugh that brings the amusement back to Luka’s brown eyes. “If this is soft, I’d hate to see what his normal hard is.”
Grave seriousness hardens the lines of Luka’s face. “You would.”
I heave a sigh as I look up the daunting climb of waving stairs. “Then you better get me to your master before it’s—” I cast my hands dramatically as I do my very best impersonation of the Queen of Hearts. “Off with your head!”
Luka’s brows lift high and his lips part in what can only be described as shock, before I hear a low, and somehow contradictorily thunderous voice my body would know anywhere.
“I’ll take it from here, Luka.”
Honestly, I could escape him tomorrow at dawn—never see him again—and my body would still know the distinct rumble of his impossibly deep voice, rich with power and thick with gravel, a thousand years from now.
Stiltedly, I shift to look up at the man. He’s glowering down at us, and he’s not wearing a shirt.
Holy. Muscles.
I snicker. I can’t help myself.
His blue eyes darken, and Luka stiffens beside me. “She only had one, boss.”
Ilya begins to close the distance between us, and I suddenly don’t feel so drunk anymore as I whisper, “If you’re going to take his head, I’d prefer not to watch.”
Luka makes a dry noise of amusement. Ilya’s eyes flash, but he says not one word to me as he lifts me into his arms, cradling me like a princess—or a bride.
Oh, jeez.
Then he’s leaving Luka—head intact—in the middle of the stairs.
I only attempt to wiggle from the prison of his arms once, before I give in with a huff as I settle against his warm, bare chest. He smells so, so good.
“You smell—” The word divine drifts off, and his brows slam in a frown.
“I just showered.”
Unbidden and unwelcome, an image of Ilya, naked, invades my mind like he invaded my life. Through sheer force.
I can’t help but wonder if the power he exudes extends to his naked form. If the bare chest I’m currently pressed against is any indication, I’m going to go with a big, fat, yes.
“I didn’t mean you smelled bad.” Why did I say that?
He makes a noise. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I didn’t.”
“But?”
“But my whole life has been ripped out from under me and I have absolutely nothing to do with myself, so a game night sounded great. The drink—I figured what the hell. Why not?”
He strolls into the bedroom, finally setting me on my feet. I don’t sway once—until his eyes drag over the length of me and the shards of ice melt in about two seconds flat.
“You’re wearing my sweater.”
Good God, did his voice just deepen?
I lift my chin. “You neglected to pack mine.”
“Yours were falling apart.” I swear, flames dance in his eyes. “There was a hole in the elbow of one.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “I still wore them.”
He says something I don’t recognize. But I’m confident it’s a Russian curse. “Take a shower. We’re going to bed.”
“A s-shower?”
His eyes focus on mine, and my heart spins like a top in my chest. “You haven’t bathed since we’ve been here.”
I’m well aware of my hygiene misfortune. I’d considered a shower, but had been too afraid to get naked for any length of time while he could appear and—and—deflower me?
Good Lord.
My cheeks burn.
He notes it, a brow rising slowly. I lift my chin and refuse, “I’m good.”
His tongue rolls over his bottom lip as he considers. Then, calmly, he says, “You can shower of your own will, alone.” He pauses only to resume, words dripping with threat. “Or I can join you. Either way, you will take a shower.”
I grit my teeth and do my best not to stomp my foot. Then, because I’m enraged—the man enrages me—I spin around and stomp to the closet. Gathering my jammies, I stomp back out of the closet, and past the brute, to the bathroom. It’s when I’m passing the threshold into the washroom that his voice stops me in my tracks.
“I like you in my clothes.”
Refusing to look over my shoulder at him, I step into the bathroom and slam the door behind me.
Then, I lean my back against it and practice calming, deep breaths.
Before I’ve settled myself, the door pushes open, and I stumble deeper into the bathroom. I shriek a horrified, “What are you doing?”
Ilya moves to the vanity, placing something white on the surface before he comes to stand close to where I stand. He’s so close, the scent of him assaults me.
I want to plug my nose and inhale a taste of him at the very same time. I hate him for these conflicting emotions. I hate the way he’s affecting me. Making me feel so many things.
His big hand lifts and he snatches my jammies from my hands. What?
“You will wear my shirts to bed from tonight on.”
My mouth drops. In my head, I shout. But what comes out, is a breath barely deserving of a wheeze. “What?”
“When you sleep in my bed, you sleep in one of my shirts—” He gives me a devilish grin that has my heartrate skittering unsteadily in my chest. “Or you sleep in nothing at all.”
For a stunned moment, I stand in shocked silence.
Then I kick into motion. “No.”
I make to grab my jammies back, but he holds them out of reach. He’s—he’s a—a brute! An ogre! A despicable man with a really damn great chest.
Wait, what? No. No, I’m not thinking of his chest.
With all the hatred I can muster, I demand, “Give me back my clothes.”
“If you come to bed in anything but my shirt, I’ll tear it from your body, Little Blue.” His eyes lock on mine as I heave deep, angry breaths. “And then I’ll ravish you. Every. Inch. Of. You.”
Every. Inch. Of. Me. Heats.
Incensed by his words, and the response my body has to them, I snap, “Get out.”
“Do you understand, Irelynn?”
“I fucking hate you.”
His expression doesn’t change. Lunatic.
“Do you understand?”
I clench my jaw as I turn my head to the side, refusing to look at him. But the asshole just grips me by the chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. Still, I’m pissed off enough to rip it from his grasp. His response is borderline violent as his hand snaps to the back of my head, collecting my hair in one of his big fists.
Yanking back on it, he forces my head back. My eyes burn and my heart riots as my body begins to tremble—but he has my eyes.
Somehow, in all our exchanges, the monster always seems to get what he wants. “Do you understand?”
I hiss. “Yes.”
He steps into me, his hips pressing into mine until I’m stepping back. When the lip of the vanity presses into my back, he keeps moving in until he’s pressing into me and towering over me. His scent surrounds me. His warmth threatens to devour me. His eyes are impossibly hungry on my lips.
God, I think he’s going to kiss me.
My core clenches.
Please, please don’t…
Wet heat pools between my legs, a horrifying response to a craving I’ll never succumb to.
No. I don’t want this.
It has to be the drink. And that had to have been a double. A triple, even.
Damn Daniil!
I don’t want this…
My stupid body has other ideas, though, when it comes to this monster.
He dips his head, breath washing over my lips. A shudder rolls through my body. A warning to the quake that threatens to split me in two. To divide me body and soul. Lost to desire and loathing for a man who stole me.
I whimper.
His eyes snap up to mine.
He curses again, low. He releases my hair from the twist of his punishing fist. “Take a shower, Little Blue.”
He steps back from me, and then he’s gone.
My knees have turned to jelly. It’s all I can do to push myself from the vanity to cross the space to the door. I lock it.
He left with my jammies. Neanderthal.
My heart sinks.
I set the shower, strip, and step under a scalding spray with the intention to burn his touch from the memory of my flesh.
It doesn’t work.
I don’t suppose even hellfire can burn away the touch of the devil.