Chapter 4 #2
“I’ll help,” Selina said, heading toward the stairs, but Sasha stepped in front of her.
“Don’t tire yourself, Selina. I’ll take care of it,” he said, already moving up the stairs without waiting for an answer.
I met my sister’s worried gaze over his shoulder and gave her a small smile, not wanting to stress her.
Pregnancy was hard enough without my chaos.
Only once we were out of sight did I start struggling again.
“Put me down!” I growled, sweat beading on my skin.
But he ignored me and carried me into my bedroom as if it were his own.
He set me down on the bed and turned toward my vanity, beneath which sat a small fridge.
He opened it and grabbed a syringe. “No, that’s glucagon.
I need insulin,” I said weakly as the room began to spin, he disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard the tap running.
My eyes drifted to the mini fridge, exactly like the one in my room in Sochi.
They hadn’t been there before. Sasha had ordered them and had them installed himself.
Without me asking anything and I had never even thanked him.
I closed my eyes as a memory surfaced, one from the night that must have pushed him to do it.
A memory from long before our first kiss, back when he had found me in that bar…
Fourteen months earlier, Sochi
The manor was silent. Everyone was asleep.
It wasn’t surprising, given the late hour, nearly three in the morning.
With trembling fingers, I closed the door of the bedroom that had been assigned to me, right next to the one shared by my sister and Rafael.
A deliberate choice, no doubt, meant to reassure us.
To make us feel safe. To gain our trust. I had no doubt it was intentional.
They wanted to soften us, to make us more pliable by playing on our emotions.
That would never work on me. It had been a long time since anyone had been able to manipulate me.
I had been fooled too many times before, and I had learned from my mistakes, something Esme used to remind me of often.
I headed toward the staircase, my body already beginning to tremble.
That was what it meant to be on enemy territory.
I had eaten as little as possible; anything could have been slipped into the food, sleeping pills, paralytics, maybe even poison.
I had learned the hard way to be careful.
Unfortunately, fate had saddled me with this damned condition, and eating too little was never a good idea. A curse I had lived with all my life.
I reached the top of the spiral staircase.
Everything in that mansion was impressive, lavish.
Elif Ivanov clearly had refined taste and immense wealth.
My vision blurred as the steps began to double.
I needed glucagon and once again, cruelly, it had to be kept cold.
Which meant a refrigerator. Which meant the kitchen.
I let out a shaky breath, gripping the banister with all my strength as I began my descent.
One step at a time. There were so many of them.
A sudden wave of vertigo hit me. My foot missed the step I thought was there, and I gasped, expecting to tumble all the way down.
Instead, an arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me firmly against a warm body.
“Easy there,” a voice murmured near my ear, making me tremble even more.
I slowly lifted my face and met pale blue eyes, my favorite color.
Of all the possibilities, of course it had to be that one.
The man frowned when he noticed my pallor and shaking.
“What’s wrong? Talk to me,” he said, his warm hand brushing my frozen cheek.
I closed my eyes with a soft sigh, leaning into the warmth, into the gentleness.
“Look at me, Sienna,” he said. Hearing my name in his mouth sounded…
strange. Good. He rarely used it, preferring those ridiculous Russian nicknames.
The tremor in his voice made me obey, he looked unsettled.
Was the unshakable prince actually affected?
“I need sugar,” I finally whispered as my legs gave out, a small sound escaped me as he lifted me effortlessly against his chest. He was warm, bare-chested.
Sasha Ivanov, half naked, carrying me in his arms.
I was far too weak to react. Exhaustion washed over me completely, tears burned behind my eyelids as I curled instinctively against his warmth, his scent, just for a moment just long enough to feel safe, to rest.
My cold, damp forehead pressed against his warm shoulder, and another shiver ran through me.
I was freezing. “Stay with me, Sienna. Don’t fall asleep,” he murmured as he entered the kitchen, switching on the lights with his elbow.
I whimpered at the sudden brightness and buried my face against his neck.
“Sorry,” he whispered, turning off half the lights until the glow softened.
He set me gently on the counter, one arm still braced behind my back to keep me steady.
He opened the cupboards above my head, searching while I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his torso, muscular, broad, warm.
Without thinking, my fingers brushed his pectoral, just beneath my nose.
He froze. I felt the muscle tense beneath my touch, and almost absentmindedly, I traced a slow line upward toward his shoulder.
He said nothing at first, then forced himself to resume searching, though his body remained rigid.
Did he hate being touched? Did he already know what I was? A prostitute? Did I disgust him?
The thought made my stomach twist painfully.
I was used to disgust, to contempt, to being looked at like something dirty.
But the idea of him looking at me that way made me feel sick.
Why? I’d only known him a few weeks. Why did his opinion matter?
And yet my fingers continued to wander, sliding up to his neck.
He had a strong neck, broad shoulders, a powerful back.
Beautiful. I lifted my gaze to his profile, sharp jaw, high cheekbones, straight nose, and those blue eyes.
Sasha Ivanov was undeniably handsome. Too handsome.
Cold, distant, almost untouchable. He muttered something under his breath before finally turning back toward me with a small jar in hand.
He opened a drawer near my thigh and took out a teaspoon.
“Open your mouth,” he said quietly, dipping the spoon into the jar and bringing it to my lips, and like an idiot under a spell, I obeyed.
The taste of honey exploded on my tongue, and I moaned softly.
It was like an electric shock, warmth spreading through me, sensation returning.
Slowly, the fog lifted, the numbness receded, the trembling eased.
He pulled the spoon away and scooped another dose. “Again,” he murmured.
I opened my mouth once more, but this time I kept my eyes on his face. His gaze had darkened, fixed on my lips. His breathing slowed, deepened. He withdrew the spoon, and I caught his wrist, leaning forward to lick the honey from the back of it, my eyes locked onto his.
I didn’t know why I did it. I just wanted him to react, to feel something, to lose control the way I did every time he was near.
To feel his heart race the way mine did whenever I smelled him, whenever he looked at me,“Sienna,” he breathed, his gaze following my tongue as it brushed my lips.
He shut his eyes, inhaled sharply, then pulled back abruptly, shaking his head and stepping away.
I was left perched on the counter, alone.
His face had gone unreadable again as he turned away, refusing to let me see what he felt.
I clenched my thighs together, frustrated by the sudden emptiness his retreat left behind.
Damn it, Sienna, get a grip. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe, to calm my racing heart.
This wasn’t the hypoglycemia anymore. “How do you feel?” he asked from the sink, his back to me as he washed the spoon.
“I’m fine,” I replied, my gaze drifting over the muscles of his back, the way they shifted under his skin.
Perfect. I closed my eyes again, exhaling slowly.
I really needed to rest, my head was clearly not working properly.
I slid off the counter with relief once my legs held me.
The honey had worked. I opened the fridge to grab my injections.
I should eat something, but I didn’t feel up to it.
I just wanted to take a syringe upstairs in case another episode hit.
I felt his presence behind me again, his gaze dropping to the syringe in my hand.
“Is that the same one your sister gave you?” he asked, referring to the day he and his brothers had taken us, no, kidnapped us.
For some reason, he seemed to regret how brutally he had acted back then.
Maybe pity. That had to be it. That would explain why he kept trying to feed me, to take care of me.
I wasn’t sure. With him, I never was. My body reacted strangely around him.
I had known many men, too many and I could read desire easily.
But it had never stirred anything in me, not once in eight years.
And yet, around this damned Russian, my heart raced, my skin burned, my breath caught.
I wanted to provoke him, to unsettle him, to see him lose control the way I did.
I enjoyed pushing his limits, watching him restrain himself.
It was infuriating and intoxicating all at once, that's why I pushed harder. “You mean after you knocked me out?” I asked, closing the fridge and turning toward him, lifting my chin. He said nothing, his expression unreadable, though tension flickered in his shoulders. “That amuses you, doesn’t it?” he murmured suddenly, stepping closer. “Driving me crazy. Playing with me.”