But my gut says he was as derailed by what happened last night as we were. The kid is young, and he made a split-second decision that ultimately was a bad judgment call. I don’t think he knew what he was doing. I don’t know—there was something sort of off-the-books about the whole thing.
I drive back to the cabin. As I pull up and get out, a sickening thought occurs to me. Natasha could’ve tried to run. She didn’t have a vehicle, but she could’ve been ballsy or desperate enough to try to hike out of here to find another cabin or hitchhike on the main forest road.
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.”
Her gasp of shock couldn’t be faked. But then, I don’t trust my judgement when it comes to her. She pulls a spatula from the drying rack. For one second, I think she plans to use it as a weapon against me, but she angles it toward my eggs and lifts her chin.
Aw fuck. She’s looking out for my eggs, which are getting crispy around the edges. I hate how considerate she is. It makes it so damn hard to fight the part of me that wants all in with her. I flip the eggs and reach for a plate.
“Really, Dima?” The hurt on her face appears genuine as well. “I would think you know me better than that. My mother and I do as Ravil bids. We turned a blind eye when he kept Lucy there against her will. Pretended we didn’t speak English. I gave her massages, and my mother provided her medical care. We treated Oleg’s bullet wound without asking any questions. I would think you would trust us by now.”
“It was my trust in you that got us into this, wasn’t it?”
She turns away. “I didn’t know he was a Fed, and I wasn’t a party to his infiltration plan.” Her voice is quiet but stubborn.
I should tell her I believe her. Because I’m mostly sure I do.
But again, I can’t trust my judgment. I need to look at the data. Follow trails. I need to be sitting behind a screen—the only place I know how to live.
“So I’m a prisoner here.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I walk past her to sit at the long rustic farm table to eat my eggs. “Maybe think of it more as detention. You’re here as a consequence. We’re still examining the finer points of what happened.”
“You do that.” She picks up the t-shirt and toiletries and walks out in her bare feet. “You won’t find anything on me.”
I crane my neck to watch her climb the stairs.
I sure as hell hope she’s right.
7
Natasha