Page 50 of Kept in the Dark

“This storm is not so bad,” he says, keeping his balance as the boat tilts suddenly by snapping his arm out and gripping the doorjamb. He makes staying upright look effortless. I hate him a little for it. “We will probably not capsize, Nicole.”

I would laugh if I were sure that the sound that came out of my mouth wouldn’t be another sob. “Probably?” I repeat through gritted teeth. Not helpful.

“This boat is well-built, and we are anchored in an ideal location. You do not need to be afraid,” he continues, infuriatingly calm and reasonable.

“I don’t? Cool. Oh, wow, look at that—I’m not afraid anymore.”

“Nicole—”

“Just go away, Dimitri,” I plead, hating how small and scared I sound when Dimitri might as well be discussing… well, the weather.

I don’t think this is the kind of weather the saying is referring to.

With a sniffle, I wipe away another scalding tear with the back of my hand. I don’t need someone who runs hotter and colder than a fever mocking me. I don’t need a violent man making me feel even more like a coward. I don’t needthis personwitnessing how helpless I feel.

I hear his long exhale, and I slam my eyes closed again, impossibly more ashamed by his judgment.

“Sit up. You were sick once already; it will help to be vertical, especially if you feel dizzy from the rocking.”

I nod, accepting his advice as the pearl of wisdom it is, and uncurl my legs. I expect him to disappear back upstairs, now that he’s convinced there’s nothing actually wrong with me, but instead he sits on the edge of the bed and settles back against the wall, shoving fallen books out of his way.

“Come here.”

The room tilts and I fall back against the wall as my noodle arms give out, but Dimitri remains stable in his seated position, flexing his legs to keep himself in place. “What?” I squawk, gaping at him.

He confirms that he actually said what I thought he did by opening his arms like he’s asking for a hug. “Just get over here, med.”

I bristle at the nickname—I don’t love being reduced to my profession, but now’s not the time to request a do-over. “Why?”

He tsks. “Must you always knowwhy, Nicole? You are in pain, and I am offering comfort—you can relate to this,da? Take what I offer. Let me soothe you.”

My arms shake as I push myself up into a sitting position, and then I lurch towards him with the motion of the boat before I’ve even madeup my mind. I catch myself against his leg and my face heats, so I avoid looking at him as I crawl to his side of the bed.

Yeah, I definitely played that one cool. Egototallyintact.

I aim for the space he left next to the wall, but he grasps my upper arm and pulls me towards him. As I arrange my legs over his lap, stopping short of sitting on it the way he clearly expects me to, his arm comes around my back. Holding me in place, he rests his other palm between my breasts, against my sternum. It’s a warm, heavy weight that centers me and draws my focus. I freeze, instantly anchored, and locked in.

My eyes drop, and the way his palm spans my chest makes my breath sharply exit my lungs. His hands are… fuck me, they’re huge. I’m used to men with delicate hands in my work. You need good dexterity to place an IV or use a scalpel, and fingers with pointed, elegant fingertips, balanced with soft, rounded palms are kind of the norm.

Not him. Like everything else about him, they’re enormous. Square, blunt-tipped, and covered in calluses and scars, his hand is strong with neatly trimmed fingernails and thick cuticles. Utilitarian is the word that comes to mind.

Dear God, what would those huge, blunt fingers feel like inside of me?

“Look at me,” he says. His tone is a gentle rumble that I feel all the way down to my toes. “Breathe.”

My breath expands automatically under his hand, breaking a staccato rhythm in the back of my throat.

“Good girl. Again.”

My stomach flops and my pussy spasms at the unintentionally sexual praise.

I grip his wrist with both hands and make deliberate eye contact as I take a deeper breath this time. I know what he’s doing, and instead of feeling infantilizing, it feels like a lifeline. I’m not having a panic attack, but he clearly knows what to do when someone is.

Is this what my patients feel like when I try to calm them down? Am I as good at it as he is?

“Good,” he murmurs. His eyes drop to my lips, but only for an instant. “One more.”

When I complete the next breath, his hand slides down to curl around my waist, skimming my breast in a way that might or might not have been intentional. Succumbing to the calming pressure of being enveloped in a warm, delicious-smelling hug, I lean in and press my cheek against his hard chest. I can feel the texture of his chest hair through his shirt, and I almost rub my face against him like a cat.