Page 93 of No Longer Mine
“It fits you.” He glanced around as if committing it all to memory. “I’ll want the full tour another day—when you’re not bleeding all over me.” His lips quirked, and then he winked.
That flutter deep in my stomach came back with a vengeance.
Who was this man? And why the hell was this starting to feel dangerous for reasons that had nothing to do with my injury?
I shifted against him, trying to wiggle free. “You can put me down. I can walk.”
He snorted, his grip tightening like steel. “No chance.”
When we finally reached the third floor, his gaze swept over everything—the oversized bed, the sleek furniture, the set ofdoors leading to the terrace. His expression gave nothing away, but I could tell he was taking mental notes, cataloging every detail like it might matter later.
His eyes flicked to the terrace doors. Too cold now, I almost said, but stopped myself. In the summer, I practically lived out there, searching for something to hold my interest.
The truth was, I didn’t have just one hobby. I had all the hobbies, cycling through them like a gambler chasing luck. Painting, photography, baking, archery—nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever felt like mine.
But standing here, held against Dimitri’s chest, I had a different problem. One that had nothing to do with hobbies and everything to do with the way my pulse refused to settle.
“Let’s get you some meds in your system. We’ll worry about everything else after that,” he said, raising a brow.
I barely processed his words, too focused on the heat of his body against mine, the strength in his arms, the way his heartbeat was steady while mine was a chaotic mess.
I blinked. “What?”
His eyes widened, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of unease cross his face. “Where’s your medicine cabinet and bathroom?”
Oh. He thought I was slow to respond because of the pain and blood loss—which, to be fair, was probably true. But also… not.
I lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the right set of doors. He moved quickly, carrying me into the bathroom before setting me down in the vanity chair. Without hesitation, he dug through the cabinets, his movements precise and efficient, until he pulled out an orange prescription bottle. He inspected the label, then grabbed the clean mouthwash cup from beside the sink. Turning on the faucet, he filled it and handed both to me.
“Take them,” he ordered, his voice softer now.
I stared at him for a beat longer than I should have, then swallowed the pills, ignoring the way my fingers trembled as I handed the cup back.
With a soft click, he flicked open a knife. My pulse skittered.
“I hate to do this, but I don’t think you can raise your arms enough to take the shirt off yourself.”
I hadn’t thought that far. My brain short-circuited. Wait.
He was going to undress me? Dimitri Cristof was about to undress me.
I should’ve called Cleo.
All I could do was stare at him like a dumb idiot while he reached forward, blade glinting.
“Okay,” he murmured, like he was reassuring me. Like I needed to be reassured.
The knife slid up the center of my uniform, cutting through fabric like butter. I was in full stealth mode, which meant I wasn’t wearing anything remotely sexy underneath. Just plain black undergarments and a few hidden weapons—not exactly the kind of undressing that led anywhere interesting.
And yet, my body had other ideas.
Something hit the floor with a dull thud. Then the sharp clatter of metal against tile.
Sinclair’s leather notebook. The flash drives.
I froze.
My eyes snapped to Dimitri’s face, but he didn’t react. Either he was too focused on what he was doing—or he didn’t care.
