He’d walked in on her pacing about, barefoot on the floor, one hand on her chest and the other in her hair, fingers treading through her red strands, teeth digging into her bottom lip. The room was dim except for the single warm glow from the bedside lamp. It bathed her skin in gold and cast shadows behind her frame, outlining the sharp turn of her jaw, the subtle tremble in her shoulders.
He stood in the doorway, unmoving, stealing the opportunity to stare at her to his heart’s content. She was beautiful like this, not just physically, or because her nightshirt clung to her thighs when she walked. She was beautiful even when she was drowning in the sea of her own thoughts, even when she was searching for his phone—an action he found oddly adorable.
Something had shifted between them in the last few hours. Something Fedya feared was irrevocable. He’d always found her attractive, yes. He’d always been possessive of her, absolutely. But he was beginning to feel things beyond his comprehension. That was what pushed his anger when that thing had spoken about her like she was an expendable property. The rage that had overtaken him had been unlike anything he’d felt in a long time.
And yet, it was because of that very prominent thing he felt for her that stopped him from doing something stupid like shooting him in front of everyone while he was still under Mikhail’s wing. Because a part of him knew there was a good chance she wouldn’t like the scene, the blood and gore that came with it. She did portray some particularly impulsive and violenttendencies when she was provoked, but it couldn’t compare to her witnessing death and blood because of her.
Notwithstanding, Fedya still wanted Julio dead. Would still make sure it happened.
But for now, his focus was on her, and he could feel his fascination twisting into a darker, blistering thing, like a cord wound tight around his neck, snatching all his air from him.
It was getting harder for him to breathe around her.
She was just about to take another step forward when she came to a halt, her eyes darting towards his frame leaning against the doorway. She straightened, playing her usual role of being unaffected by him, and cleared her throat.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I noticed.”
An awkward silence ensued between them, the type that hung heavy between two people who didn’t know what to do with the sudden intimacy they had created. Her fingers played with the hem of her gown as she glanced towards the bed, then at him, then away again.
A frown touched his brows. She was nervous. He’d never seen her nervous before.
He pushed off the doorframe. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not,” she lied.
“Do you really want me here, Maeve?” he asked, raising his brows, waiting for an answer. “I was fine on that couch.”
She stepped forward, walking around him, and pushed the door shut behind him without a word.
“It’s just sleeping,” she shrugged, turning back to him. “That’s all. Why would I be nervous? I called you in here, didn’t I?”
Fedya did nothing but quietly observe her. He liked staring at her, watching her fall apart from within without having to do too much.
“Right…” she began, shifting awkwardly. Yup, definitely nervous. “Earlier at the party, when you stepped in and defended me, I just—I didn’t say it then, but thank you. I just realized I hadn’t thanked you yet.”
“I did what I was supposed to,” he said, his eyes flicking over her face as he reached down and unstrapped his gun from under his waistband. He set it on the nightstand, and Maeve’s eyes followed it back to him. “You don’t need to.”
“Still—” she continued, about to argue, but her words died in her throat when he tugged at the buttons of his shirt in a few seconds before peeling it off his body in one fluid motion.
At the sight of his chest, she turned her head quickly, looking anywhere but him. If it were any other day, any other time at all, he may have been amused by her attempt at decency. But he didn’t find it amusing at that moment. The last thing he wanted her to do was to look away from him.
He stepped closer, bare chest exposed, his body honed from years of violence. Faint scars marked the skin beneath his chest, a jagged line across his ribs. A tattoo wrapped around his right shoulder, spiraling into various patterns down his entire arm. He didn’t stop until he was close enough to feel the heat of her body against his.
“Look at me.”
It was a demand, not a request. One that Maeve pretended she was deaf to.
He moved even closer, and he felt her shiver when he took her hand and placed it flat against his chest, just right above his beating heart.
“I said, look.”
Maeve lifted her head ever so slowly. Her eyes met his, cautious and slightly confused. Her hand trembled slightly as it lay against his skin, as she felt the rhythmic pumping of his heart beneath her fingers, the heat of him diffusing into her palm.
“Feel it,” he said, his voice low. Her hand twitched as if she wanted to pull away, but he held it there, guiding it methodically across the ridges of his chest. “It’s real, isn’t it? It’s flesh and bone and blood. Like you. I bleed. I feel.” He held her gaze even as he guided her hand down his abdomen. His muscles tensed, and her breathing grew shallow as her fingers brushed over the hard planes of muscle, warm skin, and a scattering of coarse hair.
“I’m human like you, Maeve,” he said when he guided her hand just above his waistband. It was his turn for his breath to grow shallow. “And I’m your husband. You have no reason to be scared of me.”
