CHAPTER EIGHT #4
“Yes.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes.”
I let out a deep breath, accepting that’s all I can ask of him.
Then he strolls back out into the dining room, gazing around at the pine branches adorning the walls, accented by paper cranes and metallic stars.
It’s not much, but somehow, it dramatically changes the ambiance.
It’s beginning to—dare I say—look a lot like Christmas?
He doesn’t say anything at first. Big surprise. But he meanders around the room, examining each one in silence. Finally, he returns to the hallway, where I’m still trying to bring my nerves back to equilibrium.
“They’re very nice,” he finally says. “Where did you learn to make those—the birds?”
I scrunch up my nose in thought. “Summer camp, maybe? I did a lot of origami in middle school. We used to get in trouble for making those fortune teller things in class.” I chuckle at the memory.
“You practiced the occult in school?”
“Yeah!” I knit my brow in surprise. “Didn’t you?”
He stares back at me, long enough for me to realize that he legitimately doesn’t know that I’m joking or what I’m talking about. I bring my hands up to my chest like I’m holding an imaginary paper fortune teller on the tips of my fingers.
“So, there are four sides, and you stick your fingers beneath the flaps and move it like this.” I move my fingers in and out, simulating the game.
“There are colors and numbers drawn on it that determines how many times you move it, and then at the end, you open the flap and there are answers like yes, no, maybe, you’ll die in eight days… ”
“What?” Sergei furrows his brow.
“I’m kidding! I’ll make one sometime and show you,” I snicker. “So, was there any damage to your building?”
Since he’s home now, I feel comfortable enough to steer the conversation away from things that don’t involve shadowy figures prowling around outside.
“Some downed trees and debris on the west side, but it was easy enough to clear,” Sergei replies, heading into the kitchen to grab a glass out of the cupboard. “Did you sleep well last night?” he asks before downing a tall glass of ice water.
“Oh, yeah, thank you. And thanks for breakfast again. That was really nice of you.”
“I'm not used to someone else sleeping in my bed with me,” he adds, eyeing me with his glacier blue eyes.
His tone’s returned to its normal stoicism that makes it difficult to tell whether he’s just making an observation or implying that I’m still an interloper in his house.
“Me, either. I hope I didn't disturb you. I actually slept really well.”
“I know.” He sets the glass down on the countertop. “I figured as much when you used my hand to make yourself come.”
Oh...shit.
All the oxygen leaves the room as my brain short-circuits.
“You could've just asked,” he adds.
My throat is suddenly parched. “Asked—asked what?” I try to play dumb. It’s my only defense.
Sergei starts across the kitchen in slow, lumbering strides. “You could’ve asked me to make you come.”
The way he says it sends a tremor from my chest down through my belly.
“Um…I…” I clear my throat, my mind racing. “What?”
Goosebumps bloom over my arms and my hands turn clammy. Sergei comes to a halt just inches from my chest, so close that I can smell the torturous aroma of oakmoss and wintergreen emanating from his daunting stature. “You take care of everyone else. Does anyone take care of you?”
I have to tip my head back to look up at him. He’s stifling…in the best way.
“I take care of myself—in all ways,” I retort, finally finding my voice again.
“Apparently.” He plants his palms on the counter at my sides, towering over me. “You’re intelligent and resourceful, but you’d rather chew your own arm off than ask for help. Why is that?”
“Because…” Am I seriously validating this question with a response? “You were sleeping.”
What else am I supposed to say?
His mouth twitches with amusement. A few heavy moments later, he leans down, close enough that I’m sure he can hear my heart pounding in my chest.
“Should I just take what I want, too?”
He tilts his head and leans in, coming closer and closer until his nose brushes mine, daring me to take the bait. And I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t give in, but I don’t want him to stop.
“Sergei.” I pull back before I lose myself. “Did you do this on purpose?”
The corner of his mouth curls in amusement. “Did I make it snow on purpose?”
I don’t exactly know what I’m asking. Of course he didn’t make it snow, but he knew how to find me at the airport.
And even though he wasn’t responsible for me tripping the breaker, it seems too coincidental.
He has to have flaws. But I’m not sure those flaws include shapeshifting into a monster from the woods.
“I mean,” I take a breath and meet his eyes, “are you a stalker like Colson?”
It might’ve worked for Brett, but if Colson had pulled that shit with me, he would've ended up in prison or in a bullet-ridden pile of blood and guts on my porch. It’s the last thing I need right now, and if I can find a reason to, then I’ll walk out of this room and end this right now.
“A stalker…” Sergei draws out the word like he’s saying it for the very first time.
His eyes wander to the windows, still covered by the vast spans of drapery.
“Out there on the mountain, yes. And whatever I follow out there ends up in the deep freeze in the shed. But not here. You came back willingly.”
Something flicks my chest, giving me a start, and when I glance down, I realize that half the snaps on my shirt are undone. Sergei runs his hand over my shoulder, his touch sending a chill down my back as he sweeps the flannel off my arm.
I blink, shocked that he’s even touching me. He’s so bristly that I almost can’t imagine him touching anyone. But his fingertips feel electric, sending goosebumps skittering over my skin.
“Did you like having the house to yourself today?” he asks, not taking his eyes off me.
Every word he utters sounds like a threat, even if it’s a completely benign question. And that juxtaposition is driving me absolutely insane.
I love it.
“Um,” a flutter ripples through my chest as a smile threatens my lips, “it was nice…and quiet…”
He snakes his arms around my back and then suddenly tightens his grip. My hands fly to his shoulders as he lifts me onto the counter.
“And the snow…” I keep talking as I feel the snap of his fingers behind my back, “the snow was really beautiful.”
“You shouldn’t have gone outside,” he chides, gently pulling the straps of my bra down my arms.
“Why not?”
“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” he continues as my bra falls onto the floor. “Or maybe you liked it that way.” He doesn’t look away, running his hand over the small of my back.
“Because you’re such a distraction?” I smile.
“You would know about that,” Sergei replies, his eyes affixed to my bare breasts. “You’ve been the worst of distractions since you stepped off that plane.”
Another wave of goosebumps cascade down my arms and I wince as they turn my nipples to hard beads. He’s standing so close, and he feels so good…and smells so good.
“Do you want me to leave?” I tease. “Are you kicking me out?”
“No,” he clips in no uncertain terms. Then his eyes flick to mine. “I’ve been dying to touch every inch of you since the moment I heard your voice.”
And, this time, when he leans in, I don’t dodge his advances.
Instead, I grip his broad shoulders and pull him close.
The sweet taste of his lips laced with his coarse facial hair scratches an itch I didn’t know I had.
Every movement of his mouth and hands, even the way he shifts on his feet, feels deliberate and precise.
There’s something about devouring—and being devoured by—a man as stoic and intimidating as Sergei Mikhailov.
The razor-sharp armor comes down enough to sneak inside and suddenly you feel like you’re in a secret place where no one else is ever allowed.
Granted, I’m not delusional enough to believe that no woman’s ever been in this exact position before.
But right now, that’s hardly any concern of mine.
Holding me firm with one arm, he hooks his other fingers in the waist of my pants and slides them down over the curve of my ass.
The stone countertop is like ice against my skin, but I barely feel it through the rush tearing through me like a riptide.
Completely naked and exposed on his kitchen counter, he kisses me again, running his hands over every inch he can find while my heart threatens to pound a hole through my chest and straight into his.
And then, all of a sudden, he stops. He dips down and, before I realize what’s happening, he lifts me off the counter and over his shoulder. He clamps his arms over the backs of my knees, throwing my ass in the air as I dangle over his back.
“Come on, Printsessa.”
Sergei turns abruptly, making my hair swing across my face as the floor starts to move beneath me.
“I made you a promise.”