Page 58 of Cruel Russian King

“You're welcome. And Artyom,” her voice softened, “thank you for trusting me.”

The line went dead.

By the next morning, I was tired. I had stayed up looking after Ninel. She hadn't woken up throughout the night.

I had showered and dressed about an hour ago and had already gotten her breakfast from the cook: ginger tea, oatmeal with a drizzle of honey, plain toast, some chicken broth and a bottle of room temperature water.

Just as I had placed the tray on the nightstand she stirred on the bed. Her eyes opened and then she focused on me.

“Hey…” I said softly as I sat next to her.

Slowly, she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Hey…I'm sorry about last night…” she said softly, not looking at me.

I lifted a brow. “What are you sorry about?”

She bit her lower lip. I removed it gently with my thumb and gently tilted her head so she’d look me in the eyes.

“Printessa, what are you sorry about?”

“That I ruined your night. You were supposed to be networking, creating new alliances…” she sighed, “Not leaving because of me.”

“Ninel, you didn't ruin anything. You're not well. So there's no need to be sorry.”

She nodded.

“I brought you breakfast. Take care of business in the bathroom, then you'll sit and eat.”

“Okay.”

Slowly, she slid to the edge of the bed. I stood and held out my hand to her and she took it standing more shakily than I liked.

“Ninel, do you need me to help you?” I asked, brows narrowed.

She stiffened. “No…I'm okay…” she glanced down at her clothing then at me.

“Did you change my clothes last night?”

“After you threw up on me, the bed and yourself. Would you have wanted to stay in the soiled gown?”

She shook her head, as her face flushed. “No…thank you.”

I watched as she inhaled and then released my hand and made her way slowly to the bathroom.

“Don't lock the door. In case I need to get to you,” I insisted, before she closed the door behind her.

I didn't hear the lock click and sighed. I watched the door like a hawk, listening for any sudden noises in the bathroom.

When she exited five minutes later, I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I helped her back into bed, and sat next to her with the tray.

“What would you like to start with?”

“I think the only thing I could stomach right now is the broth,” she said as she stretched her hand for the tray.

Ignoring her, I mixed up the broth, scooped some into the spoon and held it to her mouth, my hand under the spoon.

“I can feed myself.” She watched me warily.

“I know you can. Humor me.”