ROMAN — Volkovskaya Bedroom, 0647 #2
Anya is at the counter, pale, lips pressed together, trying to wrap gauze around her own palm one-handed. There’s a red streak across the white surface, drops spattering onto the floor.
“Stop,” I say.
“I’ve got it,” she snaps without looking at me.
“Spill control yes,” I say. “Hand no. Come here.”
She hesitates, then stalks over, jaw clenched, hand held out as she’d rather stick it in the fire than let me touch it.
The cut runs across her palm. Clean, deep enough to need attention. Blood still oozes slowly and darkly.
“Come to my study.” I curl my fingers around her wrist. “I don’t keep first aid in the lab. We’ll rectify this mistake.”
“I can walk,” she grumbles.
“I know.” I don’t loosen my grip. “But you’ll follow.”
In my study, I drop into the chair behind my desk and spread my legs.
“Stand here.” I tap the space between my thighs.
She hesitates. “I can sit on—”
“Here, Anya.”
She huffs and steps into the space, edging in until she’s almost touching me. I take her hand again, turning it palm up. Blood shines in the firelight.
“How deep?” I ask.
“Superficial,” she says automatically. “Didn’t hit tendons. No foreign body. It just… stings.” Her voice shakes on the last word.
I reach for the decanter, pouring whiskey into a crystal glass.
“Alcohol will clean it,” I say.
She snorts. “Not at that concentration. You need—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I also know it’s going to sting like hell, and I’m in the mood for honesty.”
Before she can argue, I tip the glass over her hand.
She gasps, whole body jerking, free hand flying to my shoulder for balance. Fingertips dig into the muscles through my shirt.
“Blyad’, Roman,” she hisses. “That fucking hurts.”
“Language,” I say mildly. “There’s still a sliver in there.”
She tries to yank her hand back. I hold on.
“Don’t move,” I tell her. “You’ll make it worse.”
I open the drawer, take out the knife.
She goes rigid.
“Relax.” I angle the blade under the skin, eyes on the cut. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d use something bigger.”
“That supposed to be funny?”
“No.” I flick the glass shard out, watching fresh blood well up. “Statement of fact.”
I should reach for gauze. I don’t.
Her blood pools in her palm. Hot. Bright. Mine.
Something ugly and hungry rises in my chest.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I bring her hand to my mouth.
She freezes and makes a tiny sound, high and shocked.
Copper. Salt. Her. It hits my system like a shot of adrenaline. My cock goes from interested to hard in seconds.
“The fuck are you doing?” she whispers.
“Disinfecting,” I say calmly.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Da.”
I lower her hand and reach for proper supplies. Antiseptic, gauze, tape. I wrap her palm neat and tight, focusing on the task and not on the way her breathing has gone shallow.
When I’m done, I pull a grey silk scarf from the drawer and tie it over the bandage, smooth and snug around her wrist.
“There,” I say. “Pretty.”
Her eyes snap up to mine. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.” My hand slides to her hip before I can stop it. She’s close. One more step and she’d be in my lap. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s the pain.”
“Mm.” I curl my fingers at the back of her neck, feel the fine hairs there stand up. “Tell yourself that if it helps.”
At my touch, she sucks in a breath.
“Stop,” she says quietly. “Please. I can’t think when you— when you do that.”
“That’s the point.” I lean back a little, still holding her. “Listen carefully, Anya. I promised not to touch you until you ask. I meant that. But I’ll make waiting a special kind of hell. You don’t get one without the other.”
Her jaw clenches. “I will never ask.”
“Not yet.” I release her, stand up, and move to the door. “Go get dressed for dinner. High neck. Low heels. Nothing that makes Dmitri think he’s allowed to imagine you naked.”
She glares. “He’s going to imagine it anyway.”
“I know.” I let my eyes slide down her body, slow and obvious. “So do I. The difference is, he dies if he tries anything.”
She leaves in a hurry. Smart girl.
When the door closes, I lean on the back of my chair and suck in a breath like I just went ten rounds. The taste of her blood still sits on my tongue.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
There’s a knock. Luka strolls in without waiting for permission, because he’s earned that right more than once.
“You look like you’ve swallowed a grenade,” he says, dropping into the armchair opposite my desk. “Everything all right with the new lab?”
“She broke a beaker.”
“I know. I watched the security feed.” His mouth curves. “You licking her hand wasn’t strictly necessary first aid, boss.”
“Watch your mouth.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. Woman’s not even twenty-four hours under this roof, and you’re already making terrible decisions.”
“They’re controlled,” I snap. “I know what I’m doing.”
He snorts. “Sure. That’s exactly what you said in Novosibirsk before you fucked the arms dealer’s wife in his own house.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” He stands, straightens his jacket. “Chechens are already asking about her. Dmitri, especially. He did his homework. Knows about the PhD, the patents, the little humanitarian streak. He thinks she’s cute.”
My jaw tightens. “What did you tell him?”
“That she belongs to Roman Volkov, and anyone who forgets that ends up in pieces at the Khimki site.” Luka grins, all teeth. “But he’s still going to push. It’s what he does.”
“Then we remind him,” I say. “As many times as it takes.”
Luka heads for the door, pauses with his hand on the handle. “You want free advice?”
“No.”
“You’re getting it.” He looks back at me. “Whatever game you think you’re playing with that girl? You’re already in deeper than you planned. Try not to drown.”
He leaves before I can answer.
I look at the door Anya just walked through, and I know Luka’s not completely wrong.
The radio crackles on my desk.
“Boss,” one of the gate men says. “Chechen convoy’s ten minutes out.”
I pick up my jacket, slide my arms into the sleeves.
“Copy,” I say. “Tell the kitchen to pour vodka. I’m going to get my wife.”