Chapter 3
ALIK
The Pagano woman is lifeless in my bed. The doctor has taped an IV drip to her arm, providing the hydration, nutrients, and antibiotics she desperately needs.
Dr. Ruiz’s expression is grave as she enumerates the woman’s extensive injuries. Starvation, dehydration, and an infection are at the top of the list.
“There’s the severe bruising to her stomach, obviously.
Whoever hit her broke through the skin in some places.
I’ve bandaged the deeper cuts. None of her ribs are broken, but she’ll be uncomfortable for a few days.
She also has lacerations around both wrists and ankles.
Some have healed. Others are infected. I’ve bandaged the ones that needed it, on her wrists.
If she’s lucky the worst that will happen is scarring.
If she’s not and she doesn’t respond to the antibiotics, then, well…
” Dr. Ruiz’s shrug is resigned. She knows all about the monsters that roam this world, knows the damage they inflict. Survival is far from guaranteed.
The patient stays motionless in the bed.
She hasn’t opened her eyes once since I cut her free.
But despite the doctor’s less-than-confident prognosis, some of the color has returned to the young woman’s cheeks.
Her lips have lost their hypothermic tinge.
The intravenous fluids are helping, as are the painkillers the doctor has given her.
“What about sexual assault?” I force myself to ask.
“No evidence of that,” the older woman says with a firm shake of her head. “With proper rest, hydration, and nutrition, she should be well on the way to recovery within a few weeks. Physically, at least.”
Dr. Ruiz knows enough about me to not ask too many questions about where the patient came from or what happened to her, but she’s a highly intelligent woman. She knows some of the hardest wounds to heal from hide deep beneath the skin. “Be gentle with her.”
I give the doc a vague nod, still coming to terms with the fact that I have to do anything with the Pagano woman to begin with.
She shouldn’t be here.
I made the wrong choice. I’ve failed Rina again.
Correctly interpreting my silence as dismissal, Dr. Ruiz packs up her things, leaving a collection of pill bottles, fresh sterile bandages, and instructions on the bedside table. She’s almost out the door when she stops and turns to me. “Mr. Valentin, one other thing.”
“Hmm?”
“The patient—she needs a bath. To help with the recovery process and stave off further infection. You can roll the IV stand into the bathroom with you. Keep the bandages dry but get her cleaned up. The sooner, the better.”
One part of my brain tracks the doctor’s movements as she heads down the hall and out of the apartment. The other is itemizing all the ways I want her to be wrong about the bath and cursing because she isn’t.
Not to be harsh, but the Pagano woman really does stink.
Her hair is a hard matted mess, her skin streaked with filth.
Grime and God knows what else is buried deep under her nails.
Under the comforter, her kneecaps are almost black.
The doctor cleaned the wounds on her wrists and ankles, but streaks of blood are still visible on her arms and legs.
There’s no way she can heal properly when she’s this dirty. And the faster she’s healed, the faster I can put her out of my mind and put my focus where it needs to be.
Blyad. Guess someone is getting a bath.
Resigned to my fate, I spend the next few minutes gathering supplies and figuring out the safest way to get her into the tub without disturbing her IV or bandages.
She’s been naked since I brought her into the apartment, so I don’t have to worry about exacerbating injuries while stripping her.
A small mercy I’m not sure she’s going to give a shit about when she finds out I washed her while she was unconscious.
I deal with human bodies all the time, can catalogue their most vulnerable points. Can maim with precision, kill with one blow. I’m more aware than most of how mechanical our pile of muscle and bones really is. How simple it is to flip the off switch on these organic machines.
I can end someone’s life without blinking.
In comparison, applying a little soap and water should be a piece of cake.
I’ve only just started the process when I realize how wrong I am.
She’s in the tub; I’m kneeling on the floor beside. I’ve kept the water level low to help avoid an accidental drowning and deposited a healthy dose of bubbles to make the whole cleaning process more efficient. That’s my first miscalculation.
The bubbles make her skin slick, her torso slipping dangerously low every time I let go of her non-IV arm. After a few more grips and slides, I realize I’m fighting a losing battle. Not only is she not getting clean, but I’m manhandling her on top of it.
Fuck.
With a deep sigh, I steel my resolve. There’s only one way to get this done.
With her arms carefully draped over the edges of the tub, I prop the Pagano woman up while I strip down to my underwear.
Jaw locked, I step into the bath, maneuvering us so that I’m sitting behind her, my legs bracketing the outside of hers as I lean her back against my chest.
I know what’s happening, am watching myself do it in real time, but I’m still not ready for the full-body contact.
I can’t remember the last time I was skin to skin with someone, in or out of water.
I’m not a monk. I get off when I need to.
Find release with a willing woman who doesn’t ask too many questions and doesn’t care that I never spend the night.
I’ll happily screw a woman against a wall or bent over the closest flat surface.
If my fuck buddy wants to get naked that’s her choice.
But I keep my clothes on, my weapons strapped in place.
Letting my guard down is tantamount to getting killed.
What’s happening now, inch after soft inch of warm bare skin pressed against mine—this level of exposure is something I don’t do. There are too many vulnerabilities laid bare.
That’s the reason my heart is pounding so hard.
The only reason.
A statement I silently repeat as I rest the Pagano woman’s head against my shoulder and carefully sweep a washcloth down one arm and between her fingers, keeping the bandages and IV line dry.
Be gentle with her.
I grind my teeth together, keeping my movements slow and methodical, and my eyes on my work. I manage to clean both arms and hands without too much trouble but stumble when I reach her legs.
Jesus Christ, her legs. They’re bruised and cut and filthy, but I’d have to be blind not to notice how long they are, or the subtle way the insides of her thighs curve up to meet her torso. The thatch of black hair nestled between them.
Talk about inappropriate. The woman’s family has degraded her to nothing more than a commodity. I’m not going to make things worse by sneaking a peek at her snatch. Eyes averted, I clean her legs as best I can, avoiding the abrasions around her ankles.
Applauding myself for not being a complete shit head, I move on to her back, only to realize that this is going to be even worse.
I have to lean her forward, carefully resting her weight against one arm to get access to her shoulder blades and everything below.
Her spine curves gently, bubbles slipping across the fine lines of her muscles as I brush the cloth across her skin.
Drops of water collect along her spine, slipping downward, dragging my attention with them. I hear myself groan as I watch them disappear between the sweet curves of her ass. Hear my own jaw grind as my dick springs to life behind my black boxer briefs.
There’s less than an itch between my cock and her ass, a gap that’s vanishing the longer I stare at her dips and curves, my shaft swelling painfully fast.
Stop it, you fucker. Just stop.
Rationally, I know everything about my reaction to her is inappropriate. Wrong. Not just wrong—wildly inconvenient.
At best, the Pagano woman is my next reliable source of information if Rocco died in tonight’s explosion.
At worst, she’s a distraction to be dealt with until she’s well enough to send far, far away, out of mind and out of reach of the men who wanted to buy her.
Lusting after her goes way past worst-case scenario. It’s a one-way ticket to disaster. A distraction I absolutely cannot afford.
Easier said than done. All rational thought boils down to white noise, a buzzing sound too easily ignored as I lean her back against me, angling her head and piles of black hair so that I have an unobstructed view of her chest.
Her breathing is shallow but even. Her body temperature consistent, reassuringly normal. I, on the other hand, am chewing air like I’ve just finished a marathon, sweat breaking out on the back of my neck.
Collar bone, breasts, dusky nipples pulled into hard peaks. She’s beautiful. Even after what she’s been through, there’s no concealing how inherently bewitching she is.
Or denying how much I want to trace and taste every sleek line on display.
That’s not the biggest problem, though.
The one that’s really going to fuck me over is that I can feel myself turning feral at the sight of what Pagano and her cousin did to her stomach.
They marked her, viciously. Violently. The bruises will vanish with time, but some of the punches broke skin.
The deep ones, currently covered by the doctor’s bandages, might scar.
Mementos of what her family did to her. Marks she’ll carry with her for life.
Every vengeful feeling I have toward Rocco Pagano multiplies in this moment. With it, the need to know whether or not he died in that fire.
Not that it will save him from my wrath. Not even hell can protect him from the Arkhangel. Even if I have to pull him out of the grave, he’ll pay for hurting her.
My thoughts are the absolute opposite of gentle and the woman pressed against me must sense it. Her body tenses, her head shifting against my shoulder as she lets out a pained moan. She starts to struggle against me, but the movements are jerky and weak.
“Shhhhh. Shhh. You’re okay. You’re safe.” My voice is so soft I don’t recognize it. Sure as hell don’t recognize my impulse to sooth her back to sleep. “I’ve got you, moya voitelnitsa. You’re safe now.”
Moments later she’s quiet. Good thing too, because whatever break from reality I’m having, it has to end. Now.
I shove aside every thought about the woman except the most basic, focusing on tipping her head back as I wet her hair, careful to keep her face dry.
With every pass of the handheld nozzle, the evidence of her captivity her washes away.
It takes several rounds of shampoo to get the strands fully clean, but when I’m done, I feel an irrational sense of pride.
Her hair is long, nearly to her waist, thick and inky black. Too damned beautiful.
For fuck’s sake, Alik! She’s clean. Job done.
Time to officially end this torture.
In a matter of minutes, I have her back on the bed and wrapped in the towels I left there.
I’m dripping water all over the place and don’t give a damn because I need her dried off, tucked in, and out of sight as fast as possible.
I wrap her wet hair in a towel and adjust her position so that she’s lying on the bed, head propped on the pillows, arms carefully tucked at her sides.
I draw the comforter up to her chest and turn to go, so close to escaping when fingers wrap around my wrist. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “Don’t.”
I can barely understand her. “What?”
Her eyes are closed but she darts her tongue across cracked lips. “Don’t go.” Her voice is barely audible. “Don’t leave me. Please. I can’t—I can’t be alone. In the dark.”
I should say no. I’m wet, cold, dick uncomfortably hard. Pissed at myself for saving her and losing Rocco. Pissed at her for being so damn tempting. So incredibly pissed I could punch a hole through the wall and not feel a thing.
I have every reason to say no.
None of them stop me from saying yes.