Page 15

ZOYA

P ain brought me back to the world.

Not all at once. It was more like a slow drip. At first, I awoke to a throbbing in my skull, radiating through my temples before I slipped back into blissful nothingness.

The second time I woke, the pain had lessened but my throat was raw and dry. I tried to swallow and failed; it didn’t matter, though. The gloriously numbing dark saved me again.

The third time I returned to awareness, there was no escape.

Every single cell in my body ached.

I had never really known what people meant when they said they felt like they got hit by a truck, but now I got it.

My body felt heavy, foreign. Like it wasn’t really mine, and newly installed circuits had yet to be connected.

I didn’t move. I had learned the hard way to never let people know you were awake until you knew what was waiting for you.

I needed to figure out where I was, and who else was in the room before I opened my eyes.

The sheets surrounding me were too soft to be hospital linens.

And I wasn’t at home; the soft, thick but warm coverings I was under were made from luxurious cotton, not the silk of my sheets.

The room smelled like antiseptic and iron, suggesting some type of medical ward.

That was, until the scent of dark spices wafted over them.

I knew that smell. It was deep, mysterious, and addictive. I knew it, but I couldn’t place it. My mind wasn’t racing; it was trudging through mud. My thoughts were slow, tedious, and fuzzy.

Slowly, I opened my eyes to find Roman standing at the foot of the bed, glaring at me.

"Are you awake this time?" he asked, a threat low in his voice.

I nodded and instantly regretted it. Pain echoed through my head, all originating from a spot on my temple that was stiff and tender.

"Good," he said, moving to the side of the bed.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes burned with rage, but his touch was gentle as he helped me to sit up.

His movements were caring as he settled on the edge of the mattress then poured a glass of water for me and held it to my lips, letting me take a few long sips.

This man and his never-ending contradictions made my head spin, head injury or no.

I took my time with the water, sipping slowly, buying myself time to understand what was happening.

I was in a dark bedroom. The lights were dimmed low, casting long shadows over the dark navy walls and wood furniture. The room screamed masculine, with old money taste.

And it smelled like him.

I was in his bed.

Why would he put me in his bed?

As soon as the glass was drained dry, he set it on the bedside table and immediately got to his feet and paced around the room. His fists opened and closed at his sides, anger and frustration radiating from his body.

I said nothing.

I sat and waited for him to make the first move. There was no way I was going to be the first to speak. Not when I didn’t understand what was happening.

"How dare you," he seethed. Finally saying something.

"How dare I do what?" I asked, putting an edge in my voice. I may have been at a disadvantage—hurt, groggy, and confused. But that didn’t mean I was willing to show weakness.

"How dare you fight me like you had nothing to lose!" He turned, facing me and putting his hands flat on the mattress on either side of my feet.

His eyes glowed with an intensity that froze my heart.

There was so much going on behind his eyes, I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. If I didn’t know what he was thinking, I couldn’t gauge my answers appropriately.

I hated being at such a disadvantage, being in a position of weakness. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t the woman I had worked so hard to become.

Carefully, I pushed myself up further, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. My limbs were slow to obey. Everything felt heavy and tingled with poor circulation as I moved.

It wasn’t until I was sitting fully upright, feet on the floor, that I noticed the plastic tube going from my arm up to the metal pole hidden behind the post of the bed.

I had an IV.

There were two plastic bags hanging from the pole. One was the standard large saline drip, something I was very familiar with. The other was less familiar to me.

Narrowing my eyes, I tried to focus on the small text. Tranexamic Acid (TXA) .

I had taken it in shots before, and in pill form, but never as an IV.

"Answer me," Roman growled.

"I forgot the question," I said, raising an eyebrow, showing him an attitude that I didn’t feel.

"I said"—his jaw clenched so hard I was a little worried his pearly white teeth would shatter—"how dare you fight me like you had nothing to lose!"

A bitter laugh escaped my dry lips as the taste of pennies filled my mouth. "I dare, because I have nothing to lose."

My voice was hoarse, and each word scratched its way out of my throat, but I didn’t let them waver. I didn’t let the weakness I was feeling seep into my voice.

Roman had seen far too much of my weakness already.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath as he raked a hand through his dark hair.

Stupid fucking disease.

I knew the drug the doctor gave me would force my blood to clot over the next day like a "normal person." Too bad it wouldn’t last. It was too risky to take on a regular basis. Too many side effects. The medication always left me heavy-limbed and tired.

The side effects would clear soon enough, but it did nothing to get me out of this… situation.

If Roman’s doctor gave me TXA, then more than likely Roman knew what that meant. He wasn’t stupid. He would have asked or done his own research.

The doctor likely would have told him what it was, and why I got it. Even if he hadn’t, one quick Google search and Roman would know how to break me.

He knew about my disease, and worse, he knew that the medication granted him time. Because not only did it stop my bleeding, it also stayed in my system for hours.

So he knew he could hurt me, and it wouldn’t kill me. He knew how fragile I really was.

No.

He knew how fragile my body was.

I was more than just my body.

I pushed my shoulders back and took a deep breath. Ignoring the aching from my ribs and the sharp pain radiating from the shoulder I had landed on—at least I didn’t have to worry about internal bleeding anymore—I faced him.

"This changes nothing," I said with a glare that made grown men shrink.

Roman just cocked his eyebrow at me, silently asking if I was serious.

"I’ll still fight you. Tooth and nail. You will never break me."

There was something forbidden and thrilling about watching the iron grip a man kept around his self-control at all times simply shatter.

His dark, calculating eyes widened and became wild, lit by lunacy from within.

"Changes nothing?" He stalked around the bed toward me.

I shrank back, pulling my feet up and pressing myself to the headboard as I tried to inch away from him.

Everything still hurt, but my instincts overrode the pain and told me to flee.

Not that it mattered. He was too fast, and I was too sore.

In an instant, his body was on top of mine, his hips pinning mine down to the bed as his hands gripped the headboard, caging me in.

He leaned forward, his face inches from mine, and stared down at me.

I stared back, meeting his rage with defiance.

"If you get hurt, you could bleed out and die. Do you fucking understand that?"

"Oh, is the big bad bratva enforcer, the demon of the Ivanovs, worried that I might get hurt?

" I taunted. Roman terrified me. My heart was racing, and a cold sweat ran down my spine. He didn’t need to know that.

"How did you think this was going to end, Roman?

A tickle fight? Or did you think you could just spank me into submission? "

"I can try," he countered.

"I am not a damsel in distress that needs the big, muscular man to come and save me. You forget who I am. I can play with the big boys."

"So, what? You risk your life to prove a point?" he growled, lowering his head a little further.

His breath brushed my lips and tasted of sweet, spicy rum.

"If I die, I die."

His growl vibrated through the space between us, making my skin prickle with an intoxicating blend of fear, arousal, and anticipation.

"You goddamn stubborn woman." His hand moved from the headboard to around the back of my neck and his lips slammed down onto mine.

This wasn’t a kiss.

It wasn’t a show of affection or passion. It was a fucking battle.

A warning. A punishment. All wrapped up in a claim.

I shoved against his chest, fought against his weight, but he was immovable. He called me stubborn, but he was even worse.

I pushed against his chest again. He still didn’t move, so I pressed my nails into his flesh, carving little half-moons into his warm skin through his clean cotton T-shirt.

He growled again, a raw primal sound that sent something sharp and hot through me, tightening my stomach, heating my desire.

My body betrayed me again.

How could I control others when I couldn’t even control my own body, or the way it melted for this man?

I stilled under him, not accepting, but not fighting either.

When he pulled back, his eyes were still dark, his pupils blown wide and his breathing heavy. His expression unreadable.

"Take it out," he said as he got off of me, his thumb running across his lips like he couldn’t believe what he had just done.

"Take what out?"

"The IV. It’s done."

Sure enough, the bag was empty, so I removed the needle and placed a bandage over the tiny hole in my arm. Though I didn’t see the point. With that medication, I’d clot like a normal person and no more than a drop or two would leak from the puncture site.

But I supposed I couldn’t really afford to lose much more.

He waited. Not saying a word, just hovering over me, waiting for me to put the needle down and secure the bandage. His eyes stayed on me. Never straying from my face.

When I glanced back up, meeting his eyes, he still said nothing. He merely stood and then scooped me into his arms.

"Put me down," I said, fighting his hold.

It was no use.

His arms were like iron bars around my legs and my torso. Not that I had the strength to fight him off, anyway.

I was still so tired, my limbs so heavy.

That didn’t mean I was going to let him win. Even if it was completely futile, I would always fight.

He carried me into the bathroom, then locked the door behind us.

Still without a single word, he set me down on the edge of the counter and retrieved a box of waterproof bandages, changing out the one at my temple before moving over to the shower and starting it. Hot water sprayed from the overhead rainfall showerhead, filling the room with steam in seconds.

"Get out of those clothes," he ordered, and I had to suppress a shiver running through my body. I hated how much I loved the strength in his voice. Every word out of his mouth was not up for argument, spoken like just because he willed it, it became law.

He was the type of man that the world obeyed. I wanted to obey his command. Not just because my clothes were filthy, caked with dried blood and sweat. I wanted to please him, to bow to his whims and make him proud.

Why did it have to be like this?

If he wasn’t my enemy, then those words out of his mouth would have set my body on fire. I would have craved them, maybe even begged for them.

For a woman in my position, having a man that I could show weakness to was a luxury that I could not afford. Least of all with a fucking Ivanov.

"Sure, just as soon as you leave," I said, ignoring my hormones and instead relying on logic. I was pretty impressed with myself. The temptation to give in to him was overwhelming, but I held strong.

I wasn’t going to be able to take much more.

"I’m not going anywhere, printsessa ." His eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms and stared at me, the challenge clear.

I glared right back at him. "I’m not going to just let you watch me shower."

The corner of Roman’s lips turned up in a curl as he kicked off his boots. "Do I look like the kind of man who only likes to watch?”