Page 55 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
He also freezes like a wild animal in headlights. For several loud beats of my heart, neither of us says or does anything. I haven’t spoken to him for days, and his presence in my room—in the middle of the night—is surprising. I can sense his unease from here.
I shift across the bed and tug back the covers, a silent invitation that I don’t really expect him to accept. He lingers near the door, and I’m sure he’s going to leave, but instead, he takes a step forward, then another. Finally, he lowers himself onto the mattress. He remains stiff and awkward as he lays there, but he’s here. I can’t help but think that deep down he needs something from me the same way I need something from him. We don’t touch; we simply exist together. After a while, his breaths even out, and I listen to them, allowing them to pull me to sleep.
I blink against the dull morning light pouring through the open balcony doors. The heat from Sasha’s body seeps into me, though we aren’t touching. Rolling over, I allow my eyes to sweep over his sleeping form.
Sasha’s so perfect, like one of those Roman statues, an Adonis. Every feature is sharp, as though it were chiseled from marble. My gaze trails lower, taking in the defined cut of his arms below the sleeve of his T-shirt. I hadn’t noticed before, but the closer I get, the more scars I notice. They litter his skin, everywhere.
I glance at the clock and then Sasha again. It’s nearly nine in the morning. From my weeks on the run with him, I know he’s usually up by seven, and I wonder if I should wake him.
Pitching onto my elbow, I reach out and place a hand on his chest. In the blink of an eye, I go from leaning over him to flat on my back with a very awake Russian on top of me. His hand clamps over my throat, and his fingers twitch against my skin in warning. I thought we might be passed this, but apparently not. He blinks, that line sinking between his brows. On a shaky breath, I slide my fingers beneath his shirt and stroke my fingers over his back. At first, his hold tightens, but then he releases a choked breath, and it instantly loosens.
“Malyshka?”
His body crushes mine into the mattress, and I know rationally it should scare me. He’s a psychopath, a killer. And yet I want him closer. Every bit of it’s wrong, but I don’t care.
His eyes search my face. “I’m sorry—”
I cover his mouth with my hand, and he quirks a brow. “A lion does not apologize for being a lion, Sasha.” I allow my hand to slip from his face.
“I hurt you.”
“You didn’t. I’m fine.” I stroke my hands higher up his back, and he grits his teeth, squeezing his lids shut. When his eyes flash open, I pause, fingers stilling on his skin. His eyes are wild, unhinged, so unlike Sasha. It both thrills and terrifies me.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and then in one perfect moment, his lips collide with mine. It’s animalistic and primal, brutal and unapologetic. His fingers grip my face so hard that they dig into my skin. I’m overpowered physically and mentally until I crave everything that he is.
And then he’s gone.
He sits back on his heels, forcing space between us. “I’m sorry, malyshka.” He gets off the bed.
His apology stings more than it should. He thinks this is wrong. Maybe he’s right. Now’s probably not the time for such things. I know that, yet I can’t seem to help myself. It’s selfish and reckless. I’m a source of guilt and confusion for him. He’s a soldier. He has his rules, his boundaries, and I keep smashing through them.
For long moments, we just stare at each other across the room, and then he ducks his chin, releasing a deep sigh before he leaves. The door clicks shut behind him with heavy finality.
I know deep down that he is not a man I need to have any kind of feeling toward, and yet, my poor, vulnerable heart…
I haven’t seen Sasha since he left my room several days ago. I’ve lost all track of time, because I have no purpose. I’m just breathing. Functioning. Existing. I slip back into my solitude as easily as an old coat. I hate it, but it’s all I have.
I’m in the kitchen making coffee, and it’s only when the machine cuts off that I realize just how quiet the house is. There’s always someone around. Somewhere. Poking my head into the hallway, I see that the armed men still stand vigilantly by the front door.
It’s only when I spot George sitting outside a door that my curiosity peaks, and I walk over. The low murmur of talking can be heard on the other side, so I tiptoe closer. I can make out the timber of Nero’s voice through the thick wood, then Sasha’s with his slight accent. They’ve all been strangely elusive for days. If I ever ask what’s happening, I get no response. From any of them, including Gio and Tommy. Apparently, I don’t need to know what’s happening. I just get to exist in limbo. Pressing my ear to the thick wood, I listen. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m tired of being treated like a child, always out of the loop.
