I didn’t think about it when I left because it’s fucking Natasha, and she’s blinded me again with my desire for her. I would say it’s not like her to get feisty and run—she accepted Ravil’s edict that she come here to nurse Nikolai with total grace—but if she has, I know whose fault it is.
Mine.
I’m the one who’s been a total bastard to her.
I forget the groceries and sprint for the door, throwing it open and stalking inside. I quickly scan the living room with a sweeping gaze. No sound in the kitchen. I jog to Nikolai’s room, and then I freeze, my heart choking my throat for a different reason.
Natasha is in bed with my twin.
Holding his hand.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The serenity on her face instantly evaporates, and I hate myself for making her glare. “I’m working this fluid retention out of his arm. What’s your problem?”
I shake my head, backing up. “Nothing,” I mutter. “No problem.”
My chest constricts. She’s working the fluid retention out of his arm. Of course she is. Natasha is a healer—that’s what she does. She’s nothing but kindness and generosity.
I’m the prick who makes her suck my dick and then bails.
But no.
She might not be so innocent. I need to abandon all my own personal opinions of her and dig into data. Data doesn’t lie.
Swallowing hard, I go back out to the Land Rover and bring in the groceries. As I put them away, Natasha comes into the kitchen.
“I can do that,” she says in a low voice.
I turn to look at her but don’t answer. I don’t want to accept her sweetness. On one hand, this is punishment. She’s here to serve, to make up for the incident she played a part in causing. But I can’t stand to receive her help. Because I know if I do, I’ll want more.
So fucking much more.
I’ll want everything.
And I can’t do that.
I continue putting things away, and she joins me without an invitation.
“Nikolai woke up for a little while. He didn’t want any broth or juice.” The vet said Nikolai’s IV has electrolytes and nutrients in it, in addition to his meds, so I’m not worried about him not being hungry.
I still don’t answer. I hate her for trying to make conversation. I hate myself for being such an asshole.
“This shirt is for you. They didn’t have any shorts or pants.” I toss the smallest t-shirt in her direction. “There’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, too. And a comb. Do you use a comb?” Gospodi, why does it feel so intimate to ask her about her hair care? It’s not like we’re moving in together. She’s my fucking prisoner.
She holds up the basic white shirt which has a boat on it and the words, I’d rather be fishing. “Wow. This will look great on me. Thanks,” she quips drily.
I try not to look her way because if I do, I’m going to be examining—for the umpteenth time—how hot she looks in that curve-hugging dress she’s been wearing for the past eighteen hours. The one I peeled up her hips a few hours ago. The one she said she wore for me.
She’s a goddamn torture to me in it. Hopefully the ugly shirt will remedy it.
“Do you still have my phone?”
“Yes.” I don’t look her way. I heat a frying pan to cook a few eggs. I wasn’t hungry this morning, but now I’m even crankier than when I left.
“May I have it?” She walks close to me—way too close—and holds out her hand.
I don’t look her way. “No.” I drop some butter in the pan.
I hear her little intake of breath. The ripple of shock that goes through her. “Why not?” she demands. There’s a note of defensiveness there.
“Because I need to search it. And yes, your date has called and texted to make sure you’re all right.” I crack three eggs and drop them into the butter then salt the hell out of them.
I expect a reaction about the date thing, but I don’t get one. Instead, she puts her hands on her hips and considers me. “When you’re done searching, may I have it?”
I hesitate, then remember my fears of her running. “No.”
She draws in a measured breath like she’s trying to keep her temper. I’ve never seen her mad, and for some reason, the idea gets me hard. What is it that’s hot about an angry woman? Just that flare of passion that men imagine can be changed to sexual charge? Or is the desire to tame her—to take control? To master her and make her beg?
“Why not? Do you think I’d call someone for help? Do you think I’d try to run? Where would I even go? I live in your building—it’s not like I could hide.”
“And your mother is conveniently out of the country at the moment.”