Page 43 of Tangled Vows

“Thank you, Clare.”

I must have heard the same three words twenty times over the past couple of days.

Not that I’m complaining. Helping out Ivan has given me something to do. I no longer have to find ways to cope with boredom. Spending time with him is nice. I just wish he wasn’t recovering. The wound in his shoulder hasn’t healed yet, which doesn’t allow much room for anything naughty. Had he been healthy, I know I would have found at least one way of making his stay here much spicier.

For now, however, all I can do is cook for him and watch some TV with him. While these activities are not my idea of a blast, I’m not going to complain. Ivan’s been through trauma. How’s and why’s are of no interest to me. I’m going to help him in any way that I can and get to know him in the process.

Get to know him?

I wished myself good luck with that on the first morning of his stay.

He’s hurt, yes, but he doesn’t have brain damage. Ivan is still the same man, shrouded in mystery. I might know what he does for a living, but he keeps any details of whatever he’s been doing out there to himself.

My first few conversations with him proved that beyond doubt. Nevertheless, I didn’t pressure him into disclosing more. I respected his wish to retain his privacy because I was quite sure he’d think I’m just a pain in the ass otherwise. I don’t want him to consider me a nuisance. More than that, an argument with him would not make things easier for either of us. There was a good chance I’d go back to my bedroom and be bored out of my mind. Again.

On the other hand, he’d be all alone in that basement, having to rely on a handful of his men for everything. They may be good at guarding this place, but according to Ivan, they’re useless at cooking.

We have just watched an episode of “Daredevil” together when he leaves the comfort of his bed. He saunters away, keeping his head down. Straightaway, he sparks my curiosity. The Ivan I know is a proud man. He walks with his chest out and his head held high.

I follow him through the basement door and turn left—he’s not on the staircase to my right. Lush sunlight is coming through the skylight in the corner. Ivan is standing just inches behind that patch of light, his wistful gaze indicative of his emotions.

“You miss being out there,” I say, my slow footsteps hardly audible. “Don’t you?”

“I can make a world of difference on the outside, Clare,” he maintains, not bothering to throw a glance my way. “In here? I’m pretty much dead weight.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I say. “You’re not dead weight—you just got hurt.”

“It should never have happened,” he says, his voice coming out lazier than usual.

“Well, you’re human, aren’t you?” I say, pitching my voice higher. “We make mistakes, Ivan. It’s in our nature.”

“I’m not drowning in guilt, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “I fucked up, but nobody else got hurt but me. I just want to get back out there. To get back in the game. Leonid’s all alone. He needs me.”

“I know,” I tell him, making my voice sound sweeter. “He’ll have you in a day or two. In the meantime, can you keep a girl company?”

“Not just any girl,” he says in an emphatic tone, his sexy smile putting naughty ideas in my ahead once more. “Just the one you see in the mirror.”

“You’re sweet.” He closes the gap between us. “By the way, maybe you should consider doing this more often.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, eyeing me with curiosity.

“The opening up thing,” I explain, my heart singing in my chest. “I mean, what would you have done if I hadn’t followed you here? Just brood alone with no one to share this stuff with? That’s not healthy.”

He gives a brief laugh, his fingers nudging my wrist. “If you say so.”

His huge figure towers over me; temptation is knocking on my door. I can’t wait for him to be the same, generous lover that makes my body throb with need. Sadly, I know I can’t have him. Not without risking breaking the stitches and plunging him back into the embrace of pain.

So, I take what I can... I stroke the top of his hands before curling my arms around his neck. He pins me up against the wall and claims my mouth with tenderness, cupping my forearms. Little by little, his fingers travel up my arms and my shoulders until they stop at my jaw. Caressing my skin, he nips at my lower lip.

I inch back, my exhale breezing around his neck. “You’re playing with fire, Mr. Petrov.”

“Don’t blame me,” he says, his voice little more than a whisper. “Your lips are delicious.”

“Let’s get you back to bed,” I suggest, my core protesting at the thought of not being touched by him.

He accepts with a nod, and we make our way back to the hall.

For all my disappointment, something good came out of this. At last, he shared his frustration with me. If someone told me this just three days ago, I would have laughed in their faces. Ivan doesn’t do sharing—it’s not his style. For the moment, I’m happy that he let me in. Intimacy can wait until he’s mended.

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