Page 48 of Lord of Passion

He looks so pleased with himself, that I forget to be irritated about his unreasonable dislike for poor Sergei. I need to make sure I send him a gift and a big 'thank you' when I get home. He had been so kind to me, even with Nikandr being all pissy every time he saw him.

After an hour in the air when everyone seems settled with card games, or reading, or, in Vasilia's case, sharpening knives, I lean over to Nikandr.

"Do you want to go to the bathroom?" I murmur. "I'd like to take a look at your shoulder."

"As I recall," he says, "the last time we attempted medical care in the bathroom, you ended up with your legs over my shoulders."

"Okay, that is so rude. Fine! Get infected. See if I care."

He laughs, taking my hand and pulling me up with him, leading me to the bathroom. He does not let go of my hand, which to me, makes our journey to privacy formedical reasonsseem far more illicit than what my intention is.

The bathroom is a very large size for a jet. With the enormous body of Nikandr looming over me, it feels more like we're squished together in a shoebox. "Can you take off your jacket and your shirt?" I ask washing my hands. He shrugs out of his jacket and unbuttons his white dress shirt, pulling it down over the bandage so I can see it.

It feels different now, these close confines without the anxiety and the adrenaline of last night. It's uncomfortably intimate after a night of "Thank God We're Alive Sex." Which, whileincredible, has probably not solved anything in our hate-based relationship.

"It looks good," I say, carefully peeling off the bandage. "The wound is dry. The skin doesn't look red or raised around it." Still, I clean it again before putting on a new bandage. Rummaging through the extremely well-stocked first aid kit, I find a bottle of antibiotics. "Here, will you start these? Bullet wounds are very susceptible to infection."

"You sound like you have experience with that," he says, taking the pills and a bottle of water from me without complaint.

"Yeah, I'm used to treating idiots who refuse to follow up on their own care," I say, closing the kit's lid and zipping it shut.

I don't want to talk about my brothers. Not now. I don't want to think about how I used to have to yell at them because their injuries would have to be nauseatingly infected before they would listen to me.

"Thank you," he says, breaking my silence, pulling on his jacket with a tired grin. Impulsively, I reach out and do up the buttons for him. He's not wearing a tie today, and the tanned column of his throat and a bit of a glimpse of his snarling wolf tattoois very distracting. I can feel his breath against my cheek as I finish buttoning his shirt. My fingers move from the buttons to his chest, smoothing the shirt and feeling the grooved lines of his pectorals. They're hard and defined. Warm. I pull my hands away like I've been burned.

"I need to use the restroom, if you don't mind?" I make the mistake of looking up, and his eyes are fiery. He does not look like a man with a gunshot wound, weak, and in pain. I refuse to drop my gaze because if he is hard, I don't know if I can trust myself.

He's staring at me, and the moment stretches out. He's too close, he smells too good, like clean cotton and the Macallan he likes to drink.

"Of course. Thank you for checking my shoulder." He leaves and I sit down abruptly on the closed toilet seat, wiping my forehead. Nikandr's face card may be lethal, but his BDE is off the charts.

Back in my seat, I open my laptop, trying to get some work done and distract myself while Alexsey and Nikandr go over something that looks like a topographical map, speaking in low tones and referring back to some documents on their laptops. They look intense and deeply invested in whatever it is that they're planning, so it doesn't seem like a great time to break in with, "Hey what you guys doing? Plotting murder or world domination?"

"Hello, Mrs. Morozova, welcome aboard." There's a pleasant man, maybe in his forties, hovering by my chair with a bowl of Cheetos. My glowing orange snack looks ridiculous in the crystal bowl he's serving them in, but a Cheeto is delicious, no matter how they're presented.

"I love you!" I seize the bowl from him. "What's your name?"

"Malcolm, ma'am."

"Malcolm, you and I are going to be friends, I can tell." It takes me three blissful, crispy Cheetos before I realize Malcolm is looking at Nikandr, deeply alarmed while my husband glares at him.

"Oh," he gives an anxious titter. "TheSovietnikfound them for you."

"Thank you, Nikandr." I bat my eyelashes furiously, but I suspect it looks less flirtatious and more like a pair of moths trying to take off.

At least he stops terrorizing Malcolm with his steely glare and I get to consume my snacks in peace.

Chapter Twenty-Two

In which “Welcome Home!” should not make Caroline homicidal.

Nikandr…

Caroline's eyes are drifting closed, comforted by the dark night as we head toward Manhattan. It was a long flight and I doubt she slept at all. Between her unnatural ability to consume those disgusting orange abominations and her countless emails, she kept busy. Her head is nodding gently and when I'm sure she's asleep, I very carefully lean over, guiding her head to my shoulder with two fingers. She sighs in relief, or maybe comfort and rests it more heavily on my shoulder, one hand settling on my thigh.

I did not know I could feel tenderness and scorching hot lust at the same time.

But here we are.