Page 71 of Savage Don

Her eyes flutter, but she doesn’t wake fully. Her clothes are soaked through. The blouse clings to her skin, the fabric almost transparent across her chest and stomach, and her trousers are plastered to her legs. The cold is still in her, sinking deeper while she lies there trembling.

I turn toward the doorway. “Galina!”

A maid appears instead.

“Blankets,” I say. “Towels. Dry clothes. Now.”

She runs.

Elara whispers something.

I crouch beside the bed and lean closer. “What?”

Her lips barely move. “Anya.”

My throat tightens. “She is safe,” I say. “You kept her safe.”

Her brow pinches, as if some part of her still needs proof.

I brush wet hair away from her face. “She is safe, Elara. Viktor has her.”

Her body convulses with another shiver. The blouse has to come off. I know it. I also know she is barely conscious, injured, and in my house because she trusted my daughter more than she trusted me. The thought of removing anything from her without her clear permission sits wrong in my chest.

But the cold doesn’t care about hesitation.

“Elara,” I say, touching her shoulder. “Your clothes are wet. I need to take this off.”

Her lashes move. No real answer. No protest either.

I let out a breath. “Forgive me.”

I undo the first button.

Then the next.

My hands stay steady because I command them to, though the buttons are small and slick beneath my fingers. The blouse sticks to her skin, and when I ease the fabric away from her injured shoulder, she whimpers.

I stop instantly. Her hand moves blindly and catches my wrist. Not pushing me away. Holding on.

That nearly undoes me. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I will be careful.”

Her fingers remain wrapped around my wrist while I work the sleeve down her arm, inch by inch. I hate the way pain tightens her face. I hate the bruises spreading across her skin. I hate that this is the second time in less than a week that she has bled or suffered because my daughter was in danger.

When the blouse finally comes free, I throw it aside.

She’s left in a thin white camisole and bra, both soaked, both clinging to her. Her nipples are drawn tight from the cold, visible through the wet cotton, and for one shameful instant my body notices before my mind can stop it.

I look away. Not now. Not like this.

The maid returns with towels and a blanket.

I take them. “Where is Galina?”

“We cannot find her in the east wing, sir.”

“Leave the clothes and go.”

She obeys, while Kirill remains near the door.