Chapter 9 #3
"You're covered in blood."
"It’s not all mine."
She comes down the stairs slowly, carefully, like she's approaching something dangerous. Which is smart, because right now I feel dangerous. I feel like the kind of violence that's been simmering under my skin for hours might break free if anyone pushes too hard.
"What happened?" she asks quietly.
"Yuri is dead." The words come out flat and emotionless. "The extraction failed. I lost four men. And Volkov just proved that he can manipulate me through hostages."
I’m not sure what made me say all that… what made me tell her anything at all. None of it is any of her business. But I see her processing it, and I see the moment that she realizes the gravity of what’s happened.
"I'm sorry," she says. There's genuine grief in her voice. For a man she never met, maybe, or for the weight I'm carrying. For all of it, I think, as I look at her face and then quickly look away.
"Don't be. It was my decision. My consequences."
"Still." She moves closer. I should tell her to stop. I should not let her see me like this—covered in blood and failure, barely holding onto control. But I don't. I just stand there and let her approach. "I'm sorry you lost people tonight."
The genuine compassion in her voice cracks something in my chest. I close my eyes briefly, trying to hold onto the control that's been slipping all night.
"You should go back to your room," I say quietly. And then I push past her, heading up the stairs.
I go all the way to my room, closing the door as I walk to my bathroom where my own first aid kit is kept. If the bullet didn’t go all the way through, I’ll have to dig it out. But right now, I think I’d welcome the pain.
I strip off my shirt, tossing the bloodied garment to the floor. And then I grip the edges of the sink, staring into the mirror. Blood crusts my shoulder and chest. I stare at my reflection for several long moments, my jaw working, and then I rear back, swinging my fist toward the glass.
It shatters under the blow. Shards of it sprinkle down into the sink, around it, and I feel blood trickle down my knuckles. And I hear, from the middle of my bedroom, a soft gasp.
I turn to see that Liesl followed me. Liesl, standing in my bedroom, a foot from my bed, long legs on display and those perfect curves hidden in a t-shirt that can’t make me forget how good they felt under my hands.
I feel too raw for this. Too frayed. “Get out.” I bite out the words. “Get the fuck out of my room.”’
Even from this distance, I can see her eyes water. She swallows hard, but she doesn’t move.
"Liesl—" There’s a warning in my voice.
"This is my fault." The words come out in a rush, like she's been holding them in and can't anymore. "Men are dying because my father won't just accept the ransom. Because I'm here causing problems and distracting you and—"
"Stop." I draw in a sharp breath and release it. My shoulder hurts. My hand hurts. My fucking heart hurts. I want all of this to stop. But it isn’t on her, no matter how much I’d like to assign blame. "This is not your fault."
"Isn't it? If I wasn't here—"
"If you weren't here, Volkov would still be testing my authority. All that’s changed is…” I break off, before I can say something I shouldn’t. "Doesn't matter. You should go."
"I came to apologize," she says instead. "For this morning. For trying to help when you didn't want it. For—"
"You have nothing to apologize for."
"I do. You were right. I don't understand your world. I was naive to think I could just—" She stops, and I can hear the quaver in her voice. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For being here. For causing problems. For—"
"Liesl." Whatever she hears in my voice, she falls quiet.
"You are not the problem. You have never been the problem.
And I was—" The words stick in my throat.
"I was cruel this morning. You were trying to help and I lashed out because I was angry and scared and I took it out on you. That was wrong."
She stares at me, and I can see her processing the apology. The crack in my armor that I'm showing her, despite my better judgement.
"You're bleeding," she says finally, gesturing to my shoulder. Her gaze flicks over the wound, over my bare chest, and she takes a cautious step forward.
My jaw tightens. "I know."
"You should clean that up." She bites her lip, and takes another step.
I let out a harsh breath through my nose. "I will."
"Let me help."
I stare at her as she keeps moving toward me. I should tell her to get out, despite the apology I just gave for speaking harshly to her before. I shouldn’t let her get any closer when I'm barely holding onto my control as it is.
I watch her face as she takes in the damage.
The bullet went through my shoulder, thank fuck.
There’s no need for me to dig a bullet out of my own flesh.
It’s still bleeding, but that can be stopped.
It can be bandaged up. But there's blood everywhere else too.
On my chest and arms and hands, evidence of the violence I committed tonight. The lives I took. The men I lost.
I expect her to recoil. To be horrified by the visual evidence of what I am. What I do. Instead she just looks at me and says, "Sit down."
I sink onto the edge of the tub, watching her as she opens the first aid kit.
I feel wary, like I might bolt if she moves too fast, and she reacts as if she sees that, too.
She takes out antiseptic, gauze, and bandages, moving around my bathroom like she belongs here, and I'm too tired and too raw to question it.
Too aware of how good it feels to have someone taking care of me. I’ve never had that. Not ever, in all my life. A longing strikes me, as deep and aching as the longing for sex. A need that I’ve never allowed myself to feel in any capacity before.
She kneels in front of me, and the position threatens to crack my already fragile control. She's so close I can smell her, clean and warm and tropical, completely at odds with the blood coating my skin.
"This is going to hurt," she warns, as she starts cleaning the wound with antiseptic-soaked gauze.
It does hurt. It burns like fucking fire.
But I don't move, forcing myself not to do more than flinch.
I watch her face as she works, taking in the concentration in her expression, the gentleness of her touch.
She bites her lower lip when she's focused, I realize. I stare at her mouth, my heartbeat quickening in my chest at the feeling of her hands moving over it, even if there’s pain.
I’d take all that pain, I realize, to feel the caress of her fingers against my skin. It feels like it could heal me from the inside out. Like it could put me back together again and destroy me all at the same time.
She’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever encountered, in a world full of violent, deadly men.
She could make me want things I’ve never thought I was allowed to have.
"You're good at this," I say quietly.
"I took a first aid course once." She glances up at me, and my chest tightens at the softness in her eyes. "Seemed like a useful skill."
"It is useful."
She goes back to cleaning the wound, and I let myself just feel it. Her hands on my skin. The careful way she's touching me. The intimacy of this moment that has nothing to do with sex. I’ve been inside women and not felt as close to them as I do to Liesl right now.
When she's done with my shoulder, she reaches for a clean cloth and wets it with warm water. "There's blood everywhere else too," she says softly. "May I?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. I feel like I’d do anything right now if she’d keep touching me, keep caring for me. Me, the violent, brutal pakhan, craving the softness and warmth of a woman’s touch. A healing, gentle touch.
I need it with a depth that frightens me.
She starts with my hands, washing away the dried blood with careful strokes. Her fingers are gentle but thorough, cleaning between my fingers and around my wrists, and I watch her as she does. No one has ever touched me like this before.
She moves to my arms next, washing away the blood and grime, and I can feel my control starting to slip.
The pain is there, still, but it’s fading beneath the growing strength of my desire.
I feel my cock twitch in my jeans, pressing against the zipper.
She looks so perfect, there on her knees.
I want her so badly. The ache spreads through me like a wildfire.
"Liesl.” My voice comes out rough with a warning.
She swallows hard, but she doesn't stop.
She moves to my chest, washing away the blood there too, and I can see her hands trembling slightly.
I can see by the way her breathing has changed that she's affected by this too.
Her hands glide up my abs, over my pecs, and I feel my muscles flex. Her breath catches.
"You should stop.” I don't mean it. I don't want her to stop. I want her to keep touching me until I forget about Yuri and the failed extraction and the weight of leadership that's crushing me.
"Do you want me to?" she asks softly. Her eyes rise to meet mine. Her hand is still on my chest. It feels as if it could burn me. My cock is throbbing.
"No." I grit out the word between my teeth, and I watch something shift in her expression. She sets down the cloth and moves closer, kneeling between my legs now. The position is so intimate it makes my breath catch.
I could take my cock out right now, wrap my hand in her hair, feed it between her lips. I could fulfill that fantasy that’s been in my head as I stroked my cock so many times now.
But it feels too obscene for what’s happening in this moment. This feels like it should be… something else. I don’t want her mouth on my cock right now.
I want it on mine.
My hand slides into her hair. I hear her gasp in the moment before I pull her to me, dragging her head upward, and lean forward to clash my lips against hers.
A moan spills from her lips as our mouths connect, her lips parting against mine as her hand flattens against my chest. The cloth falls away, and my other arm goes around her, pulling her up as I rise and back her against the counter.
She’s already panting as I grab her t-shirt and yank it over her head.
There’s nothing under it. She’s bare, all of her pale, rose-hued skin on display, and I break the kiss, desperate to have my mouth all over her.
I yank down the soft shorts she’s wearing with one jerk of my wrist, and then her panties, until she’s completely naked in front of me.
I lift her up and set her on the edge of the counter. She gasps as the cool marble touches her ass, the sound almost immediately swallowed as I kiss her again.
Part of me wants to slow down, to savor her, to make this last. To kiss every inch of her, go down on my knees and lick her to an orgasm, or two, or three, before I finally push my cock into her and have what I’ve been craving since the day I walked in and heard her bratty mouth for the first time.
But there’s no brat in her now. She’s all need, all yearning, and I can’t wait long enough to go slow.
I drag my mouth to her jaw, her neck, her collarbones. I palm her breast, squeezing lightly, and I feel her gasp as I drag my thumb over her taut nipple. I push her legs wider, move to stand between them, and her hands drop to the button of my jeans.
“No fair,” she gasps. “I’m naked and you’re not.”
Her thumb flicks open the button, and I almost stop her to warn her, but something dark and twisted in me decides not to. I want to see the shock on her face when she sees me for the first time, when she wraps her hand around me bare.
“I’m not using a condom.” I grab her chin, tilt her face up. “I want you hot and wet around my bare cock, ptitsa. So if you’re not on birth control, let me know now.”
“I have an IUD,” she whispers. I wait for her to demand a condom, but she doesn’t. Her eyes are big and wide in her face, and when she drags my zipper down instead of arguing, my cock strains to the point of pain.
I’m not going to last anywhere near as long as I want to inside of her, the first time.
I pull her to the very edge of the counter, and I shove down my jeans and underwear as soon as she gets my zipper down. My cock springs free, leaking from the tip, leaping into her hand. She feels me and looks down sharply, gasping.
“You’re…” Her eyes go even wider, if that was possible. “I… I don’t know if I can…”
“You will.” I run my thumb over her jaw, raising her gaze to mine. “You can take every inch, ptitsa. I know you can. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”
Her gaze is hazy with lust. “You’re so big,” she whispers, and my cock jumps.
“And you’re going to take all of this big, bare, pierced cock inside that tight little pussy.
” I lean in, grazing my lips along her cheek as I reach down to angle myself against her.
I should finger her first, open her up, but I can’t wait.
I can’t fucking wait any longer. “I told you I’m not a good man, printsessa.
And I want all of this cock inside of you. Now.”
She lets out a gasping moan as I notch the swollen head against her.
She’s so fucking wet that I slide against her, my pierced tip bumping against her clit.
She lets out a small, strangled cry at that, and I know suddenly that I could make her come just like that.
I could rub her with the tip of my cock, let her use me like her toy, and make her come.
I’d probably spurt all over her clit if I did. I don’t have the patience for it right now.
I need to see her stretched around my cock. I need her impaled on it. I need to fuck her, and I can’t wait any longer.
When I push the tip inside, she gasps, her back arching and every muscle tensing.
She grabs onto the counter with both hands, and I pause, reaching for her wrists.
She fights me for only a second, and then lets go as I bring her hands up to my shoulders.
“Hang on to me, ptitsa,” I murmur. “Hang on, and don’t let go. ”