15. Via
VIA
"I can walk."
My voice is a dry, useless rasp against the damp collar of his jacket. The words don't even feel like they belong to me.
My legs are completely dead, dangling over his massive forearm like loose rope as he carries me past the guards standing at the entrance of the estate.
Ilya’s grip on my waist and the back of my thighs is an unyielding steel lock, his stride long, fast, and heavy on the marble floor.
The cold rain from the loading dock is still dripping from my hair, sliding down my neck and pooling in the hollow of my collarbone, but I can’t feel the temperature.
My skin is entirely numb. My brain is still trapped in that kitchen, watching the red spray across the steel prep tables, hearing the wet, heavy crack of bones, and seeing that charcoal suit on the mezzanine balcony.
Mikhail. My fingers are still tightly knotted into the torn wool of his tuxedo jacket, my knuckles locked so hard they ache. I can’t let go. If I let go, I’ll fall, and if I fall, the shadows in my head will drag me back under.
He kicks open the doors of the master suite, his boots thudding against the hardwood before transitioning to the thick, plush carpet. He walks straight into the bathroom, where Sasha is already waiting, her hands twisted into her apron, her face pale with a terror that matches my own.
"Run the bath," he commands, his deep voice a low vibration that rattles directly against my ribs. "Hot. As hot as she can stand it."
Sasha nods frantically, her eyes wide as she darts toward the massive marble tub. She turns the heavy gold fixtures, and the sudden, roaring rush of water fills the quiet room, steam instantly beginning to rise and cloud the mirrors.
He sets me down on the edge of the marble vanity.
The cold stone bites into my bare thighs, and a violent, involuntary shiver racks my entire body.
I clutch at my arms, my teeth chattering so hard, I’m worried they’ll chip.
He doesn't waste time. He reaches for the emerald silk of my dress, his large, callused fingers working the zipper at the back of my neck with a frantic, rough speed.
"Ilya, you’re bleeding," Sasha gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as she steps away from the tub. She’s staring at his left shoulder, where the white fabric of his shirt is shredded and soaked in a deep, blooming crimson. "Your arm... oh, my God, Ilya."
"It’s a graze," he grunts, not looking up as he pulls the silk off my shoulders, letting the ruined green fabric slide down my waist. "I’m fine, Sasha. Go to the kitchen and tell Yara to prepare the medical kit. Now."
"But—"
"Go."
The word is flat, leaving no room for her to argue. She looks at me, her eyes filled with a desperate, crushing worry, before she turns and scurries out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
I’m sitting there in nothing but my black lace underwear, my bare skin goosebumped and shivering in the damp, steamy air.
Ilya doesn't say a word. He reaches down, hooks his hands under my arms, and hoists me off the vanity.
He carries me the two steps to the tub and lowers me slowly into the water.
The heat hits my skin like an electric shock.
I scream.
It’s a raw, high-pitched sound of pure, physical panic.
The water feels like fire, a blinding, blistering wave of heat that yanks my brain out of the numbness and throws me straight back into the terror of the kitchen.
My chest contracts, my lungs completely shutting down as I try to scramble backward, my wet hands slipping on the smooth marble edge of the tub.
"No! No, it’s burning! Get me out!"
"Stay still, Via."
Ilya climbs into the tub with me, his heavy leather boots and wet trousers splashing into the water. He doesn't care about the clothes. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me back down into the heat, his massive body a solid, immovable anchor that keeps me from escaping.
"Let me go! You're burning me!" I’m crying now, the tears hot and thick on my face, mixing with the bathwater as I beat my fists against his chest. "Ilya, please!"
"Look at me," he commands, his hand coming up to grip my jaw, forcing my face up. His obsidian eyes are right there, dark, intense, and completely steady. He’s not flinching from the heat, and he’s not flinching from my blows. "Breathe, Via. It’s just water. It’s not fire. You’re safe."
I stare into his eyes, my chest heaving, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
The water is hot, incredibly hot, but as the shock begins to settle, the burning sensation turns into a deep, heavy warmth that starts to thaw the ice in my bones.
The shaking in my jaw slowly begins to subside, my hands dropping to rest against his damp chest.
"You're safe," he repeats, his voice dropping into a low, soothing vibration.
He reaches for the lavender soap on the tray, his large hands working up a thick, white lather.
He doesn't use a cloth. He uses his bare palms, slowly smoothing the soap over my shoulders, down the line of my collarbone, and over my bare breasts.
His touch is surprisingly gentle, his callused thumbs dragging across my skin with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes my heart rate begin to shift from panic to something else entirely.
The heat of the water, the scent of the lavender, and the heavy, constant weight of his hands on my body start to weave a thick, suffocating spell in the room.
My breath hitches as his hands slide lower, tracing the curve of my waist, his fingers smoothing over the bruises he’d left on my hips.
I close my eyes, my head tossing back against the marble rim of the tub as a sudden, sharp ache blooms in my lower belly.
I’m wet, not just from the bathwater, but with a deep, pulsing heat that makes my thighs tremble under his touch.
"Ilya..." My fingers curling into his wet hair as he leans down, his mouth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck.
"You're a mess, Via," he murmurs, his lips warm against my throat. "But you're my mess."
He slides his hand between my thighs, his fingers brushing against the bare cleft of my sex.
I let out a loud, ragged gasp, my hips automatically rising to meet his touch, my body aching so hard I’m close to begging him to take me right here in the water.
But he doesn't. He just holds his hand there, his thumb putting a teasing, light pressure on my swollen nub until I’m whimpering, my head thrashing against the marble.
"Ilya…”
"Come on," he growls, his teeth grazing my earlobe. "Let’s get you out."
He pulls his hand back, leaving me shivering, empty, and burning with a desire that feels like its own kind of torture.
He stands up, the water falling off his wet trousers as he steps out of the tub.
He strips off his ruined, blood-soaked shirt, throwing it onto the floor, and wraps a clean towel around his waist.
I climb out after him, my legs still shaky, and wrap myself in a plush white robe.
We walk into the bedroom, where Yara has left the medical kit on the vanity. Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, his massive, muscled chest completely bare. His body is lined with thick white scars from knife cuts and bullet holes.
The fresh bullet graze on his shoulder is an angry, red trench of raw flesh, still leaking a slow trail of crimson down his arm.
I look at the blood, then at the scars, and a strange, dizzying trance settles over my brain. The hatred, the contracts, the kidnapping, it all blurs away. Right now, there is only the physical fact of him, and the fact that he bled to keep me breathing.
I open the medical kit, my fingers steady as I pull out the antiseptic and a roll of clean gauze. I step between his knees, my robe parting slightly to reveal the smooth skin of my thighs.
"This is going to sting." I keep my eyes on the antiseptic bottle, trying to steady my voice.
"I've felt worse." He stares directly at me, his eyes locked on mine.
I press the alcohol-soaked cotton to the raw wound on his shoulder.
He doesn't flinch. His jaw clenches, a single cord of muscle in his neck tightening, but his eyes never leave my face.
The sheer, suffocating intensity of his gaze makes my breath catch, my hand trembling slightly as I wipe the blood away, revealing the tear in his skin.
I pull his arm closer, my fingers tracing the deep cut on his forearm where the knife had sliced him.
"You're a brute." My thumb drags over a thick white scar on his ribs. "You have too many of these."
"They're reminders." His hand comes up to grip my waist, his fingers digging into the plush fabric of the robe. "Reminders of what happens when you let your guard down."
He pulls me closer, forcing my hips to press against his knee. The heat of his skin is like a pull, and I can see the sudden, dark blowout of his pupils as he looks at my mouth.
"Did you mean it?" His fingers tangle in my wet hair, pulling my head back slightly. "The kiss at the gala. Was it just for your father?"
I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. I want to lie. I want to tell him it was a game, a performance to save a life. But as I look into his obsidian eyes, the lie dies in my throat.
"I wanted to keep him alive." I lean down, my face inches from his. "But I didn't have to pretend to want you."
A dark, primitive satisfaction flares in his eyes.
He stands up, his massive frame instantly towering over me. Before I can draw a breath, he hooks his hands under my thighs and hoists me onto the desk behind us. The medical kit clatters to the floor, rolls of gauze and antiseptic bottles scattering across the rug, but neither of us cares.
He rips the front of my white robe open, the silk ties snapping easily. He pins my wrists to the desk on either side of my head, his body a heavy, crushing weight that slides between my legs.