Chapter 38 Natasha
NATASHA
My hands scrubbed my face. Never drank so much in my life. I bit back a tear. Was I blackout drunk … because of Vassilievich? The dam broke.
A deluge of tears overcame me as I lay in bed. His conversation echoed in my mind. His threat and nothing else.
“Natasha … baby …” Lachlan’s satiny smooth voice wrapped around me, warm and comforting.
I popped up in bed, clutching soft linens in my hands. “Sorry, I must’ve drunk a lot.” My urge to speak quickly and apologize vanished as I absorbed his attractive face. Then the surrounding area. A lot smaller than his usual bedroom.
Tiny windows lined either wall. The shades drew tight. “Those are … those are airplane windows, Lach.”
“Aye.” He stood, the top of the plane mere inches above his head.
“What’s going on?” I climbed from the bed, unsure if I should hug him or deal with morning breath. And the pain. My hands clutched my temples.
“Tash, you’re hurt?”
“A little.” A lot. Getting too drunk sounded embarrassing. “Okay,” I groaned. “I don’t know how much I drank last night. But why are we on this plane?” A gasp rushed through me, and I glanced at my left hand.
“We didn’t do a rushed Vegas wedding.” A chuckle escaped him, yet his turquoise eyes held no spark, and his mouth flattened. “Rory said you had one shot and sipped a daiquiri. A drugged daiquiri. It caused anterograde amnesia.”
My brows lifted.
“Last night at The Red Door.”
“Hah. Someone has balls. Or had. Had balls and a heartbeat. All the stuff necessary to live.” After a solo giggle, my eyes widened. “You’re serious.”
Lachlan and I sat at the edge of the bed, and he explained how his family put their lives on the line to help me escape my family’s lounge. My. Family. It was a safe space. I inquired how the MacKenzies fled, and he confirmed that they … left.
A little loopy, I strolled to the door, opened it, and peeked through the gap.
I blinked at the back of heads. Chevelle’s hair pressed like Momma’s.
Justice’s kinky coils. Rory’s hard, perfectly gelled hair.
Nan’s short tresses curled underneath her ears.
And the others. I shut the door softly. Gotta figure out how to thank them for saving me. “Lach, are we visiting Scotland?”
“I thought it best you get away. But you gotta call Vassili, love. He’s not answering me.”
I nodded, sliding onto the bed’s edge, living in an alternate universe. “How?” I murmured.
“Borya had some repelling—”
“Borya? He has the key to my house! He’s my friend.”
“Friend? Nae, Tash. You are mistaken.” Lachlan cleared his throat. Voice a little less tight, he added, “Best not to consider him as a friend anymore.”
“No crap,” I muttered, deciding to pocket his betrayal for another day. Borya … was my friend. I crawled to the bed’s edge and pushed up the plastic curtain. Misty clouds rushed past. “Okay. We’re flying high. Wait. Your game. Tonight …”
“Sprained wrist.” Lachlan wiggled his perfectly fine hand.
“So, the same doctor who pumped me full of IV fluids gave you a note that excuses you for …”
“Two weeks. We can return sooner.”
My gaze traced his hollow eyes and a tuft of his usually windswept hair sticking up in front. This man hadn’t slept a wink. Hadn’t found peace because of what nearly happened to me.
But what?
Ransom?
Ra—
Not ready to allow my mind to drag through the mud, I tussled my fingers in his hair.
My fingerprints slid over the side of his face and a jaw cut in marble.
My thumbs brushed over his mouth, and he planted his hands over the back of mine, kissing my thumbprints.
He inhaled. Deep. Good. I surveyed his handsome face, wishing I held a camera but also wishing I didn’t—that we could remain this way forever.
He’d become my living photograph. Always mine.
I delighted in how his massive chest rose between us in another deep exhale.
The sort of exhale he probably denied himself last night while worrying over me.
My fingertips brushed over his lashes, the tip of his nose, and back to those lips my eyes once darted toward and away from without my consent.
He pressed another soft kiss to my fingers. Reverent and sure.
Before a moan could fall from my lips, Lachlan stepped back, torture tightening his features.
“What?” I asked.
“I … don’t know what he intended to do.”
Lachlan’s Adam’s apple moved, strained. And the relaxed look that washed over him while I loved him with my hands vanished. He was as keyed up as ever, and we’d both fallen into a trap of dark imaginings.
“Lach—”
“I remember when Lorenzo wanted you.”
The pulse at my throat rocked. Wasn’t that name taboo? A sore subject?
“He’d called my job, my career, a game.” Lachlan locked his hands behind his head and paced away from me, only to softly thump his forehead against the door. Regret groaned past his lips. “The lad was right. It’s a game.”
“Excuse me? You’re both wrong.” I took his shoulders, but I’d never have the strength to turn him around. Luckily, he did my job for me. Faced me. Stared down. Way down. Though an entire head taller than me, he didn’t meet my eyes.
“Look at me.” I tapped his chin. “That game is your passion. Your passion is my delight. And you have this face.”
A smile wavered. “How is my face relevant?”
“Don’t be conceited.” I chuckled, hoping to add levity to our conversation. Happiness always came easy with us. “This trustworthy face and this heart.” I tapped his steel chest. “You’re honest, Lachlan MacKenzie. You’re mine, and your face is adorable. Even while sleepy. So, sleep.”
“Don’t want to.”
“I’ll lie with you?”
“Call your dad. Who knows what they told him.”