12. Vadim
VADIM
By the time the SUV turns away from the private terminal and the lights of Bucharest begin sliding past the windows, I know exactly what Sloane is thinking.
She has been quiet for almost a full minute, which for her usually means she is arranging several questions into the order she intends to ask them.
I can see the first one coming before she turns toward me.
“If nobody was supposed to know where we were landing,” she says, “who were all those men who showed up to help?”
Anton shifts in the front passenger seat. Not much, but enough.
He doesn’t want me answering.
I understand why. Sloane already knows more than she should. She saw armed men attempt to kill me, watched Anton and Marek return fire, saw the captain die on the tarmac, and listened to me admit that whatever business I conduct cannot be neatly described as legitimate.
The sensible course would be to tell her nothing else.
Unfortunately, I have discovered over the last several hours that I’m becoming strangely unwilling to lie to her.
“They were security.”
Her eyes narrow. “I gathered that much.”
“Private security.”
Anton turns his head slightly. “Vadim.”
I ignore him.
Sloane notices the warning immediately. Her gaze flicks between us. “Apparently that was classified.”
“It was unnecessary,” Anton says.
“For me to know?”
“Yes.”
Sloane looks offended.
I almost smile.
Anton sees it and becomes even more irritated.
“They didn’t know where we were landing until approximately fifteen minutes before touchdown,” I explain. “That is standard procedure when I travel somewhere I consider exposed.”
Her attention returns to me. “You hired them?”
“Yes.”
“A local team?”
“A private agency with personnel in several countries.”
She absorbs that slowly.
Anton looks as though he would prefer I develop blood loss severe enough to stop talking.
The arrangement was made two days ago through a private security contractor that has handled temporary reinforcement for me in the past. The men knew the city and the approximate arrival window, but not the airfield.
Their team leader received the coordinates only after the aircraft had begun its descent.
Fifteen minutes.
Enough time to position themselves close enough to respond if necessary.
Not enough time, ideally, for information to move through several hands and reach someone waiting with rifles.
That’s the purpose. Reduce the opportunity for betrayal.
It’s not perfect. Tonight proves that.
“They were late,” Sloane says. “Because they had only just been told where to go.”
“Yes.”
“So if the attackers were already waiting…”
“They knew before my own security team did.”
The words settle heavily between us.
Anton turns fully this time. “This is exactly why she doesn’t need details.”
Sloane looks at him. “I’m sitting beside a man who was shot because somebody knew where his plane was landing, and I was on that plane. I think I’ve earned a few details.”
Anton’s jaw tightens. “You earned nothing.”
I look at him. “Enough.”
He faces forward again, visibly annoyed.
Sloane remains silent for a moment.
Then she says, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not pretending I imagined what happened.”
The answer affects me more than it should. I look away.
The city outside becomes denser as we move toward the hospital, old buildings giving way to glass and concrete, narrow side streets opening suddenly onto wide boulevards. Traffic is lighter at this hour, though taxis and delivery vans still move beneath the streetlights.
The wound in my side has begun to burn properly now.
I’ve had worse.
Much worse.
Still, every time the vehicle hits an uneven section of road, the muscles around the graze tighten involuntarily.
Sloane notices. “You’re in pain.”
“No.”
“You just flinched.”
“I shifted.”
“You shifted because it hurt.”
“I’m beginning to regret allowing you into the vehicle.”
“You carried me into your bedroom.”
Marek, sitting opposite us, lowers his head.
Anton closes his eyes.
I turn toward Sloane. “That doesn’t give you permission to diagnose me.”
“No, the blood soaking through the replacement dressing does.”
I look down. The cloth at my side is darker than it was ten minutes earlier. “That is inconvenient.”
Sloane stares at me. “You are unbelievable.”
The hospital has already been contacted before we arrive.
That’s another advantage of employing people whose loyalty is purchased professionally rather than emotionally. The security agency has arranged a discreet entrance, and a private physician is waiting with two nurses when we pull into the underground access area.
Sloane tries to follow me immediately. One of the guards steps in front of her.
She stops, and her expression changes.
I don’t like it.
“She comes with me.”
Anton turns. “Vadim.”
“She comes.”
The guard steps aside.
Sloane looks at me. “You really do enjoy ordering everyone around.”
“Only when they waste time.”
“I’m beginning to think that’s your favorite excuse.”
The doctor examines the injury in a private treatment room while Sloane sits in a chair near the wall.
The bullet has torn through the flesh along my left side without entering deeply.
Painful, bloody, but fortunately uncomplicated.
The doctor cleans it, checks for debris, gives me a local anesthetic, and closes the worst of it with several sutures.
Sloane watches everything, but she pretends not to. Every time I look in her direction, her attention moves somewhere else. Anywhere except my bare torso and the physician working near my ribs.
I enjoy this more than I should.
When the doctor finishes, he applies a dressing and begins explaining what I should avoid for the next several days.
“Strenuous activity,” he says.
Sloane looks at me.
I look at her.
The doctor continues, unaware. “No lifting, no excessive twisting, and I would strongly recommend avoiding anything that puts unnecessary strain across the abdominal muscles.”
Marek would enjoy this conversation far too much. Fortunately, he’s outside.
Sloane’s mouth twitches.
I wait until the doctor leaves. “Don’t say it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was thinking.”
“That is often worse.”
The amusement in her face softens something in mine. For the first time since the attack, the tension around her shoulders has eased.
The hospital room is quiet now. Anton and the others have moved into the corridor to speak with security, leaving us alone. I sit on the edge of the examination bed with my shirt still off, the clean dressing stark against my skin.
Sloane approaches slowly. “You should put something on.”
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Her eyes drop briefly to my chest.
There. That tiny hesitation.
I feel it like a hand.
“Because you’re in a hospital gown.”
“A compelling argument.”
She rolls her eyes and steps closer.
There’s a small cut above my eyebrow. I had forgotten about it until she notices.
Her hand rises. “Hold still.”
I do.
Her thumb brushes carefully beneath my eyebrow, tracing the edge of the cut.
The touch is barely there, but it affects me more violently than everything that transpired between us on the plane.
Perhaps because there’s no anger behind it.
She’s simply touching me because she wants to see whether I’m hurt.
Her fingertip moves over the skin again. “You’ve got a cut here.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“You seem to have an extremely flexible definition of injury.”
Her thumb moves once more, and I close my eyes. The reaction is involuntary. I haven’t let anyone touch my face like this in years. Not gently, not without wanting something.
When I open my eyes again, she’s looking at me differently.
Softer.
Too soft. There’s no anger in there like before, when she accused me of wanting her because she was easy. God, how wrong she was.
I should move away.
Instead, I reach for her waist. “Sloane.”
Her breath catches. “What?”
“I won’t touch you till you ask for it,” I say. “You already made your thoughts clear.”
“That was before… I wasn’t thinking clearly,” she says.
“And now?”
She raises a brow. “Are you really going to make me beg for it?”
I pull her between my knees. She gasps when my legs close around her hips, trapping her lightly against me.
Her hands land on my shoulders. “Vadim.”
“I was told not to lift anything.”
“This is your interpretation of medical advice?”
“Yes.”
“You’re injured.”
“Not everywhere.”
Her eyes widen. Then she laughs under her breath. The sound is warm and surprised.
I can’t help myself.
I kiss her.
This time there’s no wall behind her, no turbulence, no anger between us, only the soft sound she makes when my mouth covers hers and the way her fingers immediately slide from my shoulders into my hair.
I deepen the kiss slowly, and she opens for me. The moment her tongue touches mine, something inside me tightens. My hands move over her waist, then lower, spreading across her hips and pulling her closer until she’s standing between my thighs with her body pressed against mine.
She makes a soft sound into my mouth.
I swallow it.
Her blouse is still perfectly buttoned, her uniform still neat, but my hands learn the shape beneath it anyway. I knead the soft curve of her waist, then slide upward along her ribs, feeling her breath quicken beneath my palms.
She arches slightly. That small movement is enough to make my body react.
Her mouth breaks from mine for half a second. “Your stitches.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“Then stop moving against me.”
She looks at me. “I’m not moving.”
“You are.”
Her cheeks flush.
I kiss her again before she can argue. My hands travel down her back, following the line of her spine before settling over her ass and pulling her firmly against me.
She gasps. The sound goes straight through me.
I knead her through the fabric of her skirt, slow and deliberate, feeling the way her entire body responds.
Her fingers tighten in my hair. “Vadim.”
The way she says my name makes restraint difficult.
I kiss down the side of her jaw, then her neck, tasting the warm skin beneath her ear while my hands continue moving over her body. She trembles, but not from fear this time. I know the difference now.
Her head tips to the side, giving me more room without being asked.
I kiss the hollow beneath her ear and feel her pulse racing against my mouth.
My hand slides up her side, cupping her breast through her blouse.
She inhales sharply, and I rub my thumb over the hard point beneath the fabric. Her knees shift closer between mine.
Fuck. She’s responsive in a way that destroys patience. Every touch produces something honest.
A breath.
A tremor.
A quiet sound she tries to swallow.
I want all of it. I want to strip away the uniform, put her on the hospital bed, and discover exactly how many different noises I can pull from her before somebody outside remembers I have been missing too long.
My hand closes more firmly over her breast, and she whimpers against my neck. The sound almost ruins me.
I drag my mouth back to hers. She kisses me harder now, less uncertain than she was in the aircraft, one hand sliding to the back of my neck while the other moves over my bare chest.
Her palm brushes my ribs. Pain flashes near the wound, and I tense.
She immediately pulls back. “See?”
I keep my hands around her waist. “I’m fine.”
“You are impossible.”
“You have mentioned that.”
“And you clearly consider it praise.”
“It depends who says it.”
She looks down at me. For several seconds, neither of us moves.
Then her thumb brushes my eyebrow again. The tenderness of the gesture hits harder than desire. I close my eyes for one brief second, and when I open them, she’s still there.
Still between my legs.
Still looking at me as though I’m something she’s trying to understand.
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I kiss her again.