Chapter 15 - Iosif
I can’t stand the thought of her being lonely. It has repercussions.
Then again, almost anything does.
“If I’m in this world, I should be prepared for it,” she argues, matter-of-fact. Janella has the ability to make whatever she says sound like common sense. It serves her greatly. She fits into my world better than either of us anticipated.
Do I want to drag her deeper?
“We’ve talked about this, Iosif. You have to let me in. I’m not a damsel in distress.”
I shoot her an unimpressed look. “You sound distressed now.”
She feigns reaching for the spear on the wall to finish me off.
It makes me grin helplessly.
More and more, it becomes clear that what had seemed like an inspired suggestion from Janella a couple of nights ago, in retrospect, is the stupidest thing I’ve ever gone along with. I can’t believe I almost bought that we could just move past the sex and forge a companionship devoid of fire.
I’d been on some badass painkillers, sure—but still.
In theory, it would’ve absolved me of the sins swirling in my head any time she’s in my line of sight—and most times she isn’t, honestly. In practice? Every time she so much as brushes up against me, I want to fucking bite her.
And then there’s the matter of her delectable perfume. Those supple curves. Her undulating laughter. Big, ethereal doe-eyes that are goddamn impossible to deny, whether lit up with that laughter, brimming with hurt, or flashing with indignance.
Any way I twist it, proximity is inevitable.
Of course, I’m aware that it’s digging my own fucking grave to invite her with me when I work off steam with my blades. It’s gagging on mouthfuls of dirt to agree to teach her how to handle my weapons.
Yet here I am, her round ass tucked against my cock, keenly feeling her adjust her stance and aim the very dagger that launched this whole trajectory.
“Don’t you want me to know I can handle myself? I know it helps me sleep better at night knowing you can hold your own in any fight.”
My eyes narrow at her in accusation. “Are you trying to flatter me?”
“Isn’t that the way to a narcissist’s heart?” she chirps, batting her lashes at me flirtatiously. She’s mocking me. Yet, it has an effect. Everything about her does.
Every smartass quip or earnest remark elicits the same reaction—the need to be so deep inside of her again.
And, therefore, the resultant avalanche of guilt.
I don’t have to think about it to know I’d be no gentler with her this time. Fuck the painkillers—I’ve never known a better high than earning Janella’s broken whimpers.
“It’s disturbing,” Janella slices through my spiral, “when you think so loudly. I’m trying to master medieval torture here, Bluebeard!”
My hand wraps around her wrist without a second thought. Her pulse stutters beneath my fingertips. We stand there, frozen like a Rodin statue.
“In my world—” pointedly, I clear my throat until the words are less hoarse, “—there are bigger, worse distractions to contend with. Focus on your target.”
There’s no fucking way she doesn’t know what she’s doing when she presses back into me, her ass grinding into me. Fuck me. I force my breath to remain even, unbothered. I squeeze her wrist in warning.
I drop my hold, and she launches the spear. It embeds itself in the target’s outer ring. It isn’t perfect, but it’s not too fucking shabby either. Up until a week ago, she’d never handled weapons. She knows how to shoot a gun now. And blades, she’s intent on mastering.
Once she romanticized them as “an extension” of me, I couldn’t say no to her.
“Elbow higher next time. You let it droop, your aim is fucked. Brace your core more.”
My instructions are terse. She complies without sass. Her tongue is caught between her teeth in concentration. It’s fucking obscene, how badly I crave—
“Good girl.”
Her face goes red. I don’t have to ask why.
None of it changes why I can’t cross that line with her again. I didn’t fold her into this world, with all of its risks and costs alongside the benefits, to take advantage of her.
Which makes it my responsibility to get my shit together.
It’s up to me to take a considerable step back from her tempting body and hold an axe out to her, and teach her how to wield it. Planned or not—easy or not—this is her world now, too. She deserves to do more than survive in it. More than I want to be inside her, I’ve got to want this for her.
So, “Let’s see how you do with this,” I entice her.
Her eyes light up gloriously.
I stay careful not to touch her at all if I can help it.
***
Later that night, I don’t even try to pretend I didn’t take her out to dinner to celebrate my own self-control. I fought every impulse and didn’t even run from her. It’s an achievement. And not a small one, either.
As we step into the car on the way back, however, Janella seems the opposite of satisfied. She’s twitchy. Tense. She pushed her food around her plate all night and still looks deep in thought. It’s like she’s here but not here.
I try to give her space. If this is going to be our new normal, maybe some space isn’t the worst thing.
It’s easier said than done.
I last all the way to the elevator doors back to the penthouse before I snap.
“What happened to our agreement?”
“Our agreement?” Janella echoes, puzzled, emerging from her head.
I clarify, “To let each other in.”
“Oh.”
She looks so stricken, I bump my shoulder into hers just to jostle her back out of her head again. Sheepishly, she smiles up at me.
“I’ve been thinking,” she starts. The apples of her cheeks are already ruddy. Just looking at her, I can tell these words are costing her courage. It makes me unreasonably fond of her.
“That’s never a great start,” I tease.
Nose wrinkling, she nudges me back.
There you are. The thought comes unbidden.
“I’m not trying to keep you out of my head.
I was figuring out myself. Not everything is about you, you know,” she harrumphs, leading the way into the kitchen.
I don’t let myself think too deeply about how normal this all feels, coming home with her.
Going through the motions of drinking water—how she hands me a bottle from the fridge before she plucks one out for herself—to flush out the sheer amount of champagne we’d consumed with dinner.
I slowly nod. “I get that.”
“I had fun today. I don’t want you to think I didn’t.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I sense a but coming, Nell.”
The impromptu nickname prompts a faint smile from her. It has her bracing her shoulders, too.
“But.” She shrugs, as if saying fair enough. “I want to try it outside. Where the bigger, worst distractions are.”
A vault door slams shut within me. “Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I protest. “You’re not coming on a mission with me. Forget about it.”
I stare at her when she releases a stunned giggle. “Wait, what?”
“I mean it. That’s never happening.”
Every time she rolls her eyes at me, I’m certain she’s been spending too much time with me. “I’m talking about my bigger, worst distractions. Not yours.”
It takes me a handful of reeling, roiling seconds to catch up. When the realization does dawn on me—connecting so seamlessly with the way she won’t look right at me, and all her squirming all night—I’m speechless.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I repeat.
Janella frowns, those insane eyes of hers exuding unhappiness.
When did my every feeling begin to be controlled by the look on her face? The answer is obvious and right there. I don’t reach for it.
I sigh and twist open my water bottle. Glaring at the ceiling, I say nothing until I’ve chugged the entire contents down. It leaves my throat cool and soothed.
I calm down enough to ask, “Why?”
Janella doesn’t even hesitate before answering.
“I’m tired of wondering. I’m sick of the night terrors. I am tired of running and feeling haunted. I want to face my fears. I’d feel a lot better—safer, steadier—doing it with you by my side.”
“What if we run into your father?”
“We won’t, if we go tomorrow night. It’s a Wednesday night. That’s poker night, every week,” she replies confidently.
She’s been thinking about this for a while, I can tell. With that bruised, sad look on her face, I can’t keep myself from tucking a loose blonde curl behind her warm little ear. “You didn’t tell me about the night terrors,” I say gently.
Again, she shrugs. “The weaker I feel, the weaker I feel. I don’t want to be that anymore, Iosif. Will you help me?”
If I were a man prone to fear, the things I am willing to do for her might scare me. But I’m not. And so, I tug on a curl until her gaze fuses with mine and let my mouth curl into a smirk.
“Sure. Sounds like fun.”