Chapter 2
Chloe
I step into my bedroom and close the door behind me. My eyes immediately land on my phone sitting on my dresser. I could call the police.
If he wanted to, he could have. He had every opportunity, but he didn’t. It might be foolish. It might be the stupidest decision I’ve ever made. But I’m not calling the police.
I pick up a pair of pajama shorts, a loose polo shirt and quickly pull them on. Then I grab the first-aid kit I always keep in my bathroom and head back into the kitchen.
He’s now sitting on one of my kitchen stools, his head tipped back and eyes closed.
“Take off your shirt,” I say. “I need to see the wound.”
His eyes open immediately, and one eyebrow lifts. Then he takes off his jacket first, and slowly starts to unbutton his shirt before shrugging it off. And then I forget how to breathe for approximately three seconds.
Oh. He’s broad. Very broad.
His chest is solid, his shoulders wide, and his stomach is lined with hard, defined muscle. Dark tattoos cover part of his arm and stretch across a section of his chest, adding to the dangerous edge he already carries.
Even with the blood and the ugly cut along his side, nothing about his physique looks softened by the injury. His abs are well-defined, stretching across his stomach in neat, ridged lines.
I realize I’m staring, and quickly look away, clearing my throat. “Sit still,” I murmur, as I pull on a pair of gloves and examine the wound.
Thankfully, it isn’t as bad as I feared. The cut is deep enough to need stitches but shallow enough that it hasn’t reached anything serious.
“Lucky for you, it’s a flesh wound.”
His mouth curves, but he says nothing. I start cleaning the wound and he doesn’t flinch.
I’m used to people tensing when I clean wounds like this, but this guy simply sits there with his eyes closed, completely still.
“You know,” he says after a moment, “I thought you were going to call the police when you went into your bedroom.”
I continue cleaning. “I thought about it.”
His eyes open, and he looks directly at me. “What changed your mind?”
I shrug. “I just figured I don’t have the energy for this tonight. I’m exhausted. The last thing I want to do is go down to a police station, give a report, answer a million questions, and spend even more time talking to people.”
I gesture toward him. “Talking to you is already enough.”
That smirk appears again. There it is. That stupid smirk that does something strange to my insides every single time.
I do my best to focus on the wound. “So why were those men after you?”
“You don’t need to worry about that. The less you know, the better.”
Of course. What was I expecting?
“Can I at least know your name? You’re in my apartment,” I add. “I’m treating your wound. That’s the least you can give me.”
He studies me.
“Kazimir.” A pause. “It’s Russian.”
Oh. So that explains the accent. “It’s unique,” I say.
His gaze stays on me. “And you?”
“Chloe.”
He repeats it, and the slight accent in his voice makes my name sound different somehow. Softer. Almost sexy.
I like the way it sounds coming from him. More than I should. And there’s a strange little part of me that wants to hear him say it again.
I tamp down the odd, off-kilter feeling inside me. After I clean and disinfect his wound, I check it over once more. “Professionally speaking, your wound needs stitches.”
His eyes lift to mine. “Then do it.”
I stare at him for a second. “I don’t have any anesthesia.”
He shrugs as if I’m telling him we’re out of milk. “Go ahead.”
I look at him shocked. How high can one man’s pain threshold be? “You’re going to be in pain.”
His smirk widens. “Ah. You’re worried about me.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Your funeral.”
I turn away and prep what I have and start stitching. He barely reacts. The only give is the slight curl of his fingers against his thigh.
“So what do you do?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
“Business.”
I glance up. “What kind of business?”
“Business.”
I stare at him. “That is incredibly vague.”
“The less you know, the better.”
There it is again. That warning. Everything about this man reads danger. The gun. The men hunting him. The way he speaks like he’s used to giving orders and having people obey them.
And yet, somehow, the stupidest part of me keeps being pulled toward him. I don’t understand it.
I shouldn’t be curious about him. I shouldn’t notice the way his voice drops when he speaks. I shouldn’t be wondering what kind of life would make someone so comfortable with pain.
But I am. And that realization makes me want him out of my apartment even faster. I finish the final stitch and cut the thread.
“There.”
I clean the area one last time and cover it with fresh gauze.
“You’ll need to keep that clean. And you should get a stronger painkiller.”
He nods.
“You also need to rest.”
“Yeah.”
I give him the mild painkiller I have in my medicine cabinet and hold it out to him.
“This should help for now.”
“Yeah.” He swallows them dry. “Thank you. You saved my life.”
Then, before I can tell him he’s welcome to leave, he adds, “I know you want me gone. I still have to wait.”
I give him a look. “Wait for what now?”
“Trust me.” My brows draw together. “Those men are still hovering around the building. I’m not staying because I’m afraid they’ll catch me.” His expression hardens. “I’m staying because of you.”
“Me?”
“If they see me leaving your apartment, you’ll be in danger. You lied to them. If they realize that, they’ll know you helped me. They won’t care that you had no choice.”
A sigh slips from my lips. Of course this isn’t over yet. “Fine.”
I gather the supplies and put everything back where it belongs before walking to the kitchen.
My stomach growls as I place the container containing my dinner into the oven, while trying to pretend this is a completely normal evening.
Once it’s warm, I dish it onto a plate and glance over at him.
“I didn’t think I was going to have company, so I only ordered enough for myself. But you’re welcome to join me.”
That familiar smirk appears again. “Enjoy.”
I sigh and carry my plate into the living room. My apartment isn’t big. It’s a shoebox, as I like to call it.
The living room has two couches facing the television.
A three-seater and a smaller two-seater.
The three-seater is obviously the better choice for a man his size.
So I sit on the two-seater and turn on the little TV.
Kazimir walks into the living room, and instead of sitting on the larger couch, he comes to sit beside me.
The cushion dips under his weight. His arm almost brushes mine, and I can feel the heat coming off his bare skin, close enough that it’s making it hard for me to concentrate.
I try my best to focus on the television as it flickers through a few channels before I finally stop on a rerun of some reality TV show.
I take a bite of my food. I can barely follow what’s happening on the screen, and I’m not really tasting my dinner either. My attention keeps drifting to the man sitting beside me.
It’s ridiculous. Two boyfriends in my entire life.
The first was in high school—just two clueless kids stumbling through a messy relationship that ended the moment we graduated.
The second was a guy a coworker introduced me to.
After he started asking me for money over and over again, I broke things off.
So no, neither of them ever made me feel anything like this.
And yet this stranger I’ve known for only a few hours has my stomach doing strange things. A stranger I’m supposed to be afraid of.
“How many hours was your shift today?” His question pulls me from my thoughts.
“Twelve. Why?”
He looks at me for a moment. “You look tired.”
Before I can stop it, a sigh escapes my lips. “You have no idea.”
Something about my answer makes his expression soften. Then, unexpectedly, his fingers reach toward my face, and he catches a loose strand of hair that has escaped my messy bun and gently tucks it behind my ear.
The simple gesture sends a strange little shiver through me.
“Tell me about your day,” he says.
I stare at him surprised. “You want to hear about my day?”
He nods. “Hmm. Was it hectic?”
I blink, then look back at the television. “Very.”
And somehow, I start talking. I tell him about the hospital being packed, the emergency cases that seemed to come in one after another, the nurse who had to leave because of a family emergency and how the rest of us had to pick up the slack.
I tell him about the patient who wouldn’t stop complaining, the coffee I never got to finish, and the lunch I barely touched. I complain about my supervisor. Then I complain about another nurse. Then I realize I’m complaining about the same nurse again.
Then I tell him a few funny stories from work. I tell him about an elderly woman I once took care of who came back with her grandson to bring me flowers after she recovered. I also tell him about some of the kids in the hospital who would share their snacks with me. I really did like them.
And Kazimir just listens. He doesn’t look bored. He doesn’t even seem distracted. He simply sits beside me while I eat and listens to me ramble about my day as if we’ve known each other for years.
At some point, I pause. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but the tiny bit of fear I’d been carrying around since I first saw him seems to have disappeared. And in its place is desire.
The desire to be touched by him. The desire to hear him say my name. The desire to have those luscious lips on mine, and my whole body.
God. Chloe. Get a grip!
“You had a long day,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry I added to it.”
The way he says it, I don’t think this man says sorry very often. “It’s fine,” I mumble.
He reaches for my empty plate before I can stop him and places it on the coffee table. Then his hand closes around my ankle.
I stiffen. “What are you doing?”
“Relax.”
Before I can protest, he lifts my feet and settles them across his thighs.
“You’ve had a hectic day,” he says. “Then you stitched me up. You covered for me when you could have called the police.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
His hands settle around one of my feet. “The least I can do is help you relax.”
I should pull away. But after a shift like mine, a foot rub from the devil himself would be hard to refuse. So when his thumbs press into the sole of my foot, every sensible thought in my head disappears.
Oh. My. God. His hands are magic.
He works his thumbs into the sore spots, slowly easing away the tension that has built up all day, causing me to sink deeper into the couch.
A soft moan slips from my lips as I rest my head against the armrest, listening to the faint sounds of the television and the steady rhythm of his hands working over my feet.
Soon, my body grows heavier, and my thoughts become slower. I know this is a terrible idea. I’m falling asleep with a stranger in my apartment.
I should stay awake. Instead, exhaustion wins. The last thing I remember is feeling myself being lifted.
Strong arms around me. The faint scent of his cologne. Then a soft touch against my forehead.
?????
When I wake the next morning, Kazimir is gone. For some reason, I’m disappointed at the fact, instead of being happy that he finally left.
What was I expecting? For him to still be here? We’re not a couple. He’s a fucking stranger.
I should be grateful I’m waking up at all. He could have killed me in my sleep. I turn toward my nightstand and pause.
There are several hundred-dollar bills sitting there. Those aren’t mine. I sit up and grab them. I count them, a thousand dollars.
Beside the money is a folded note: Sorry for staining your carpet. I hope this can help with the cleanup.
I stare at the note for a few seconds before a smile slowly creeps onto my face. A thousand dollars for a stained carpet? This money could buy more than just a new carpet—it could even buy a new sofa.
I shake my head, still smiling as I place the money back on the nightstand.
Then I force myself to stop thinking about him. I get dressed, grab my things, and head to work. And just like that, I go back to my normal life.
Or at least, I try to. Because it’s impossible to go through my day without thinking about Kazimir. A week passes. And he is still in my head.
I’m logging off after another long shift when Bea, my best friend and colleague, pushes into the changing room and takes one look at my face.
“You’re doing it again,” she says. “That lost-in-thought thing.”
I should never have told her about Kazimir. I did, the morning after, because I couldn’t keep it to myself. And Bea being Bea has been bringing it up ever since. Every time I almost manage to bury him, she digs him back up.
“I wasn’t thinking about him. But thanks to you, I am now.”
She laughs. “Come on. You have to let it go. That was reckless. You let a stranger stay in your apartment and you didn’t even call the cops.”
“I didn’t let him in. He broke in.”
“And you still should have called the police.” She points a finger at me. “Promise me if anything like that happens again, you call the cops. Where is your survival instinct?”
“I have no idea,” I say with a smile.
We step out into the staff hallway. Bea hitches her bag higher.
“A few of us are going for drinks. You should come.”
“I can’t. I’m exhausted. I just want to go home and sleep.”
“Fine. Call if you change your mind.”
We wave, and I take the bus back to my building. I go about my evening routine as usual and head to bed. But sleep doesn’t come. My body is begging for sleep. But my brain apparently has other plans.
I toss and turn for a while before reaching for my toy in the drawer of my nightstand.
Maybe a little distraction will help me relax. But the second I close my eyes, all I can see is him. Six-foot-three, blue eyes. That broad chest, that smug smile. Kazimir
I try to push him out and fail. He rubs the head of it against my clit first, slow, mean, circling until my hips lift off the bed chasing it. Then he lines up and slams into me, knocking the air out of my lungs and fills me so deep I see white.
He fucks me with long, punishing thrusts that slap against me. My free hand fists the sheets. My knees fall open wider. My whole body locks. The toy is buried to the hilt and I clamp down around it so hard my thighs shake and I can’t keep the sound in.
His name rips out of me while my hips jerk helplessly against the mattress. Wetness spills down onto my hand.
“Kazimir…”
My back arches off the bed. I can’t breathe. I can’t stop coming. Every pulse drags another broken moan out of me until my legs give and I collapse, twitching.
A voice answers from the corner of the room. “I’m here baby. All you had to do was ask, I could have helped you with that.”
I scream and throw my dildo in the direction the voice came from.
The light switch clicks on to reveal Kazimir standing in the corner of my bedroom, one hand in his pocket, the other holding my dildo, eyes gone dark.