Page 133 of Bitten & Burned

Dmitri.

I knocked. Waited. The door opened.

Dmitri stood there, shirtless. No questions, no hesitation. He simply stepped aside to allow me entry.

Just like that.

I was there. I was in.

I crossed the threshold without speaking. I couldn’t, anyway. My throat was constricted.

The door closed behind me with an audibleclick.

Hewaited.

He didn’t speak. Just watched me with that calm, immovable patience of his, like he had all the time in the world to wait.

I finally spoke. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Do you need a reason?” he asked.

“No, what I need are answers,” I said, sighing in desperation. “I have questions upon questions about questions, and no fucking answers.” My mind spun, and I almost felt like I needed to sit down. But I couldn’t.

My legs were jumpy, restless. The sigil on my thigh burned just past the edge of what I could ignore, and gods, I was tired.

Sick and tired of being left hanging.

“How can I help, Mishka?” Dmitri asked. His voice was low and soothing. Scarcely more than a hum, but just enough.

“Was that another question?” I asked, smirking slightly.

Dmitri’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

“No, it was an offer,” he replied.

He took a step closer, like he was approaching a wounded animal. That’s what I felt like right now. A wounded animal, one strange twig snap away from bolting.

Gods, I could smell him. His scent was different from Cassian’s or Quil’s, but not wholly unlike theirs either. He smelled…fresh. Like mountain air. Petrichor. Somehow, both frost and a warm fireplace in one.

I wanted to press my face to his neck and inhale.

But I didn’t. Instead, I fiddled with the bottom hem of my blouse.

“Do you think I’m unlovable, Dmitri?” The words came from my mouth, but it felt like someone else had spoken them. They felt unexpected, bursting out when I’d wanted to say something else. Something about him. About how much I wanted him. But now they were out there, and he’d heard them.

He was silent for a long moment, gray-blue eyes steady, searching mine. As if he were weighing every word he might give me. His jaw flexed once before he shook his head.

“No. You’re not.”

Ibit my bottom lip to stop the tears from welling up. I turned and walked closer to the fireplace.

“Is this about Quil?” he asked, voice soft, careful. His hand hovered at his side, like he wanted to reach for me but wouldn’t without permission.

I shook my head. “No. I mean—yes. It is. And it’s also about Vael. And Anton. Maybe Cassian, too? Gods, I don’t know.” I nearly clapped my hand over my mouth to stop the words from breaking free.

Why couldn’t Vael love me?

I stared hard into the fire, trying to memorize the way the flames jumped and danced. To guess where they would flit next. Being wrong every time.