Chapter Twenty-One
In which there are Cheetos.
Caroline…
Nikandr insists on tidying me up, never mind his blood loss and the newly stitched bullet hole.
My adrenaline rush from the chase is gone.
By the time he's finished, I can barely keep my eyes open.
We both climb into bed, and as I fall asleep, I can feel him curl up behind me.
He tucks his knees under mine and rests a heavy forearm over my waist and across my breasts, pulling me closer to him.
It's strange, I think sleepily, to realize how much larger this man is than me. I may be tall, but he's enormous. It's his body thick with muscle, and wrapped around me that makes me feel oddly safe.
I wake up the next morning to a polite tapping on the door. Nikandr is gone, so I pull on the robe I find in the closet and stagger towards the door, rubbing my eyes. There, holding my purse on one finger with my luggage at her feet, is Vasilisa.
"I seem to be settling into a rut of delivering your clothes to you," she says. "I am looking forward to going home where I'm not the only other woman in the group and someone else will be required to help you dress."
"You're too good to me,” I say dryly, taking my purse and hauling my luggage into the room.
"I know," she agrees, giving me a gracious smile. "There is breakfast downstairs. I would like you to hurry. The jet is being fueled now."
"What, we're leaving?" I ask.
"The Sovietnik has business at home, and he feels that two attacks in less than a week should really be the limit."
"This seems fair," I agree. "It won't take me long."
I go downstairs, following the sound of low voices until I find the kitchen. Three guards and Alexsey are there, Nikandr is pacing in the tiny backyard, one hand on his hip, the other is holding his phone. Whatever he's hearing is not making him happy.
"Sister!" Alexsey spreads his arms wide. "How do you feel this morning?"
"I'm not your sister," I say. "And give me some coffee, please."
He laughs, refusing to take offense, pouring a cup of coffee for me.
"Admittedly you aren't, but you have noticed, I'm sure, that we Russians have a somewhat expansive view of who is family.
If you have fought and killed alongside us, that definitely elevates you.
Not to mention the actual family connection, but calling you 'cousin sister-in-law' is a bit too Appalachian. "
"Yeah, I can see that," I agree, drooping as little as I blow in my coffee, waiting for it to cool.
"I heard the stories from last night," Alexsey says. "You've reached a level of near-mythological heroism and I'm sure the stories of your boldness will make the rounds of the Bratva by tomorrow. Where did you learn to shoot like that? How did I not know you were so good with a gun?"
"Because I'm not Lara Croft, and I don't go running around brandishing my Desert Eagle at every opportunity. My father taught me how to fire a gun when I was twelve. He always insisted that I practice. He thought that it was important I learned how to protect myself."
Vasilisa pushes over a plate with two Pirozhki for me, perfect little pastries filled with sweetened cottage cheese and fruit.
"I will tell you that I had to fight off a couple of the bodyguards to save these for you," she says, glaring pointedly at Timofey, who turns away, shoulders, hunched.
"I am personally displeased that I did not get to witness your magnificent shooting last night since I was required to keep my eyes on the road. "
"Well, I certainly appreciate you not letting us crash into a giant ball of flame," I say. "I don't think I could have kept that SUV on four wheels. That was some badass stunt driving."
"Just think, Vasilisa," Alexsey says. "If this whole business as Nikandr's Vtoroy doesn't pay off, you've got a promising career in action movies."
I manage to wolf down one and a half Pirozhki by the time Nikandr comes back in.
"Good morning," he says quietly, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Are you ready to go?"
I gaze sadly upon the abandoned half of my Pirozhki as he leads me back into one of the Range Rovers from last night.
"Are we going in the opposite direction of the airfield?" I ask.
"Good sense of direction," Nikandr says, giving me a brief smile. "We had the jet moved to a private airfield owned by Melor Balabanov. Just in case whoever is targeting us found the jet's location."
"Oh, you mean one of at least half a dozen groups that want you dead?" I ask.
"Now Caroline, don't underestimate yourself," Alexsey smiles at me fondly. "You're family now. That means they want you dead, too."
"Man, this honeymoon phase is just getting better and better," I mumble and I feel Nikandr's shoulders shake with silent laughter. Which reminds me, "How's your shoulder?" I murmur, "Are you in a lot of pain?"
"Not so much," he says and I'm fairly certain he's lying to me.
The Morozov men may be billionaires, but from some of the stories Liria has told me, their youth was hard, and violent.
They were expected to do things that would make a normal man wet himself.
I'm guessing steeling yourself against pain goes in that category.
"If you'll let me, I can check it when we get on the jet," I say quietly. Alexsey is talking to one of his men and Nikandr glances down at me with a slight smile hovering on his perfectly shaped mouth.
"Are you trying to get my clothes off again, wife?"
"No!" I replied, stung. "This is from a purely professional perspective. I just want to make sure my stitches held."
"Oh, from only a professional perspective," he murmurs. his eyes warm.
"What can I say? I'm a saint," I say haughtily. "I'm a giver."
He opens his mouth and I feel certain the next thing out of it is going to be filthy, so I clear my throat, nudging Alexsey. "How close are we to the airfield? I'd really like to call Liria before we take off. Is she doing okay? How are the twins?"
"Everyone at home is fine," Alexsey says. "Liria was understandably outraged about the attack last night. I know she's looking forward to seeing you and making sure there's no bullet holes on you that we missed."
"Yeah, she's like that," I agree.
The trip to the airfield is mercifully brief for which I am deeply grateful. There is a stress that comes with the bristling convoy surrounding us. Two cars filled with Morozov guards ahead of us, two more behind. When I look out the window and glance up, I spot a big drone flying just above us.
"Is that a drone? Is it ours?" I ask.
"Yes," Vasilisa says cheerfully. "It's armored. If we detect any threats, it will drop an incendiary charge. It burns the car and the people inside alive." She looks thoughtful. "It would've been very nice to have had a few of those last night."
I smile uneasily. She's smiling at me expectantly, so I say, "Yeah. Melt those cars right into the asphalt, huh?"
"Exactly!" she says.
My first moment of uncertainty hits when we get on the jet.
It's a beautiful one. On the way to Moscow, I liked how they put the seats together.
Instead of rows, there's two big leather chairs facing two more with a low coffee table between them.
That meant I could take the set of seats furthest from the one Nikandr was using.
How do I navigate the seating arrangements now?
Alexsey sits down and nods at the seat across from him with a smile. "Take a seat, the Pirozhki you had for breakfast weren't nearly enough. Once we're in the air, the flight attendant will make us something more substantial."
I perk up instantly. "Are there snacks?"
Nikandr sits next to me. "I did request additional menu items for the flight home," he says. "While the esteemed general manager of the Hotel Tsaritsa couldn't procure Cheetos for you, I did."
He looks so pleased with himself, that I forget to be irritated about his unreasonable dislike for poor Sergei. I need to make sure I send him a gift and a big 'thank you' when I get home. He had been so kind to me, even with Nikandr being all pissy every time he saw him.
After an hour in the air when everyone seems settled with card games, or reading, or, in Vasilia's case, sharpening knives, I lean over to Nikandr.
"Do you want to go to the bathroom?" I murmur. "I'd like to take a look at your shoulder."
"As I recall," he says, "the last time we attempted medical care in the bathroom, you ended up with your legs over my shoulders."
"Okay, that is so rude. Fine! Get infected. See if I care."
He laughs, taking my hand and pulling me up with him, leading me to the bathroom. He does not let go of my hand, which to me, makes our journey to privacy for medical reasons seem far more illicit than what my intention is.
The bathroom is a very large size for a jet.
With the enormous body of Nikandr looming over me, it feels more like we're squished together in a shoebox.
"Can you take off your jacket and your shirt?
" I ask washing my hands. He shrugs out of his jacket and unbuttons his white dress shirt, pulling it down over the bandage so I can see it.
It feels different now, these close confines without the anxiety and the adrenaline of last night. It's uncomfortably intimate after a night of "Thank God We're Alive Sex." Which, while incredible, has probably not solved anything in our hate-based relationship.
"It looks good," I say, carefully peeling off the bandage.
"The wound is dry. The skin doesn't look red or raised around it.
" Still, I clean it again before putting on a new bandage.
Rummaging through the extremely well-stocked first aid kit, I find a bottle of antibiotics.
"Here, will you start these? Bullet wounds are very susceptible to infection. "
"You sound like you have experience with that," he says, taking the pills and a bottle of water from me without complaint.
"Yeah, I'm used to treating idiots who refuse to follow up on their own care," I say, closing the kit's lid and zipping it shut.
I don't want to talk about my brothers. Not now. I don't want to think about how I used to have to yell at them because their injuries would have to be nauseatingly infected before they would listen to me.
"Thank you," he says, breaking my silence, pulling on his jacket with a tired grin.
Impulsively, I reach out and do up the buttons for him.
He's not wearing a tie today, and the tanned column of his throat and a bit of a glimpse of his snarling wolf tattoo is very distracting.
I can feel his breath against my cheek as I finish buttoning his shirt.
My fingers move from the buttons to his chest, smoothing the shirt and feeling the grooved lines of his pectorals.
They're hard and defined. Warm. I pull my hands away like I've been burned.
"I need to use the restroom, if you don't mind?" I make the mistake of looking up, and his eyes are fiery. He does not look like a man with a gunshot wound, weak, and in pain. I refuse to drop my gaze because if he is hard, I don't know if I can trust myself.
He's staring at me, and the moment stretches out. He's too close, he smells too good, like clean cotton and the Macallan he likes to drink.
"Of course. Thank you for checking my shoulder." He leaves and I sit down abruptly on the closed toilet seat, wiping my forehead. Nikandr's face card may be lethal, but his BDE is off the charts.
Back in my seat, I open my laptop, trying to get some work done and distract myself while Alexsey and Nikandr go over something that looks like a topographical map, speaking in low tones and referring back to some documents on their laptops.
They look intense and deeply invested in whatever it is that they're planning, so it doesn't seem like a great time to break in with, "Hey what you guys doing? Plotting murder or world domination?"
"Hello, Mrs. Morozova, welcome aboard." There's a pleasant man, maybe in his forties, hovering by my chair with a bowl of Cheetos. My glowing orange snack looks ridiculous in the crystal bowl he's serving them in, but a Cheeto is delicious, no matter how they're presented.
"I love you!" I seize the bowl from him. "What's your name?"
"Malcolm, ma'am."
"Malcolm, you and I are going to be friends, I can tell." It takes me three blissful, crispy Cheetos before I realize Malcolm is looking at Nikandr, deeply alarmed while my husband glares at him.
"Oh," he gives an anxious titter. "The Sovietnik found them for you."
"Thank you, Nikandr." I bat my eyelashes furiously, but I suspect it looks less flirtatious and more like a pair of moths trying to take off.
At least he stops terrorizing Malcolm with his steely glare and I get to consume my snacks in peace.