Page 123 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
Yaromir stands too close behind me, silent and tense.
I wet the cloth and face him. “Give me your hand.”
He looks at me.
“Now,” I say.
Something moves in his eyes.
Then he gives it to me.
His hand is large and warm, the knuckles bruised and split. Blood is smeared over his fingers, dried near the edges, fresh over the cuts. I clean carefully, trying not to think about Dmitri’s face or the sound of his body hitting the marble.
Yaromir watches me the entire time. I feel his gaze more than I see it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“No, you didn’t.”
His voice drops. “He followed you into a locked room.”
My fingers pause. “He scared me,” I admit. The words come out before I can stop them.
Yaromir goes very still.
I look down and keep cleaning. “I hated that,” I say. “I hated that he could still do that.”
His hand flexes once in mine. “Not again.”
I glance up.
He’s looking at me now. Really looking at me. The anger is still there, but under it is something harsher. Something almost shaken.
“Yaromir.”
He steps closer.
I don’t move back.
His clean hand lifts to my face, but he stops before touching me. Like he’s afraid there’s still blood on him. Like he doesn’t want any part of that violence transferred to my skin.
For some reason, that’s what almost breaks me.
I take his wrist and bring his hand to my jaw myself. His thumb rests there, firm and careful.
“Nobody touches my wife,” he murmurs.
The words move through me like heat.
20
YAROMIR
She kisses me.
I don’t expect it.
