Page 88 of The Enemy Protector
“I’ll never force you, Sofia. Never. What we just did only happens when you want it to.”
She nods, pressing her face against my chest. “I know.”
I hold her, running my fingers through her hair. I have kept my promise to her mother for eight years. What I didn't account for is that somewhere along the way, keeping her safe stopped being the promise and started being the only thing I wanted for myself.
“I’ve got you. Sleep.”
“You said that. That night. You said you got me.”
“I do. I will always take care of you. Now sleep.”
I continue to stroke her hair until I feel her breathing even out.
Only then do I let myself think about what just happened.
Would Elena approve? Would she be disappointed in me for having sex with her daughter? I promised to protect Sofia, but I have a feeling Elena didn’t mean this.
Having her in my arms, in my bed, is both everything I wanted and nothing like I imagined.
This is dangerous territory I swore I’d never enter.
I can protect her from Yuri.
I’m not sure I can protect her from me.
21
Sofia
I wake up knowing exactly where I am.
That's the strange part. No disorientation. No panicked second where I have to inventory my surroundings and figure out if I'm safe. I just know. The sheets smell like him. A delicious spicy aroma with a hint of cedar that I snuggled up against all night. For so long, that scent has taken me back to that night, but it never brought terror. I never understood why until last night.
That was the scent of salvation.
I'm in Sergei Sokolov's brownstone, and I slept eight uninterrupted hours for the first time in weeks. In. His. Arms.
I lie still for a moment and let myself be annoyed about that.
I feel the tenderness between my legs. Feel the whisker burns against my chin. I feel him all over me.
And I don’t hate it.
I stare at the high ceiling from my position in the massive bed. There's a painting on the wall I didn't notice last night. Abstract.Dark blues and greens, expensive-looking but not showy. I think about what it means that a man like him chose that painting. The first thing he sees every morning.
It must have meaning.
Then I tell myself I'm not doing that. I'm not reading into his art choices and trying to make him something he’s not.
He’s still a dangerous rival.
And my husband.
Oh, and the man that saved me three years ago.
It’s hard to put all of that together.
I decide not to try before I’ve had some serious caffeine.
