Page 41 of The Bratva Sinner

The room is massive, with dark furniture and expensive-looking everything. A king-sized bed with a black duvet. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the property. It smells like him in here.

Maksim strips off his jacket and tosses it on the floor. The shoulder of his shirt is shredded, with blood crusted around the edges of the tear. He yanks the shirt over his head with a wince that he tries to hide.

I try not to look. I really do.

But it's impossible.

His chest is all hard muscle and smooth skin. There's a tattoo over his heart, Cyrillic letters that I can't read. More ink wraps around his ribs and disappears beneath his waistband.

He's beautiful in a way that makes my mouth dry.

He's also covered in blood and in pain, which should be my focus. Not the way his muscles shift as he moves or the sharp “V” of his hips as he unbuttons his pants.

Oh God. He's taking off his pants.

I can’t look away.

"Stay or go. I don't care." His voice is flat and exhausted.

He walks to the bathroom in his tight briefs and doesn’t shut the door. I watch as he uses a digital keypad to turn on the water.

And then his briefs are gone, and I’m staring at his firm ass. I look away for a half-second but can’t stop myself from looking back.

He disappears behind the frosted glass. Steam drifts out.

I stand there like an idiot, staring at his naked figure behind the glass. What the fuck? What am I supposed to do? Leave and let him deal with whatever happened alone? Stay and... what? Offer to help?

Will Cinder be here soon? What will she think when she sees me watching her… boyfriend? Lover?

I still can’t bring myself to walk away.

He's hurt because of me. I know this is somehow connected to me and the mess I dragged him into.

The glass is fogged, but not enough to hide his silhouette. He's leaning one hand against the tile wall, head bowed, water cascading over him.

I should leave. This is too intimate. Too private.

But I can't make my feet move toward the door.

Instead, I find myself walking closer. He's not just beautiful; he's dangerous. Every line of his body speaks of violence and power. This is a man who has killed. Who will kill again.

And yet, he saved me.

"I'm sorry." The words come out barely above a whisper.

Maybe he didn't hear me over the water.

"I'm sorry," I say louder. "For what I said earlier. For thinking you... I was wrong."

The water shuts off. Silence fills the space, heavy and thick.

He pulls open the shower door and reaches for a towel. He wraps it around his waist without looking at me. When he finally does meet my eyes, I see hurt. Anger.

He limps past me, leaving wet footprints on the floor. He opens a closet and pulls out a medical bag I’d expect to see a paramedic carry.

Of course. This is a house of violence, and a couple of Band-Aids won’t be much use in their world.

"Let me help." I move closer.