Page 96 of Heritage of Fire

Luna

Nik places his hands on either side of my waist as I climb the stairs to the apartment.

“I’m okay, Nik,” I say, though I appreciate his concern.

A thrill runs through my body when he grips even tighter, and I turn a bright smile in his direction. Reaching around me, he opens the door. With the windows open, a cross breeze rustles my hair, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Okay. You go take a shower. I’m cooking dinner.” Nik jumps into the kitchen and starts pulling items out of the fridge. I stare at him, a wave of gratitude invading my chest, and I swallow the sudden lump in my throat.

I book it straight to the bathroom. As the shower warms, I strip out of my clothes and stand in front of the mirror, sighing at the bandage on my head. Thankfully the gauze is easy to remove, and soon I’m staring at several stitches in my head, grateful my hair covers the majority of them.

Steam starts to rise from the shower, and I step in, the warmth instantly seeping deep into my muscles. Hot water envelops my body, and the tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders melts away. I wash the dirt and salt out of my hair andscrub skin until it’s raw and I can no longer feel Mr. Rose’s every touch.

Tears fall as I move the loofah over my chest, a long scab from his knife reminding me of his promised pain. It’s all too much; I fall to the shower floor and let the water wash away my shame. My stomach twists with every memory, and I hang my head, finding solace in the steady fall of water around me.

I’m not sure how much time passes before the shower goes cold. Stepping out, I towel off, then pull on a pair of leggings and one of Nik’s shirts. I bring the fabric to my nose, breathing in Nik. Safe. I’m safe.

After brushing out my hair and applying some lip balm to my chapped lips, I leave the bathroom. Immediately I stop in my tracks, shocked by the new piece of furniture near the window.

It’s a tall white corner bookshelf with five shelves on each side. And it’s half full of books already. Stunned into paralysis, I stand there as the sting behind my eyes returns. Once I manage to move again, I pad over.

My fingertips graze each book as I scan the shelves. Thrillers and cozy mysteries line them, and I take my time pulling books off one at a time to flip through the pages. I crack open the spines, smelling the books and finding joy in an otherwise depraved couple of days.

A figurine on the top shelf captures my attention.

A raccoon.

Grabbing the little guy, an envelope falls to the floor. I open it to find a rather large gift card to New York’s largest bookstore.

Fill the rest of these shelves, Moonbeam.

-Nik

My hands shake as I bring the figurine out of the bedroom with me. Leaning against the fridge, I watch Nik as he glides around the kitchen, flipping pans and tossing a salad.

He does a double-take when he sees me, and a smile breaks out across his face. I focus on his twitching dimple when he smirks at the racoon in my hand.

“Thought it’d be better than the real thing.” He winks at me, and I melt to goo. I downright ogle him as he finishes the meal and pours us some red wine. He pulls out an island stool, and I’m so discombobulated I can’t even remember if they’ve been in this apartment the whole time or not. His fingers brush my neck as I sit, and I shiver at the contact, heart hammering.

When I see the plate of food, my mouth waters. Spaghetti carbonara and a salad. He made my favorite meal.

“I’m sure it’s not as good made by a Russian, but I tried.” He blushes, and I stare, confused. Nik blushing is … not a thing.

I load a forkful, twirling the long noodles and grabbing a few pieces of bacon and chicken. A moan escapes me when I take a bite. I elbow my neighbor. “It’s delicious, Nik,” I say around my mouthful of food. “False modesty doesn’t suit you.”

He lets out a delightful laugh. “I’ll make it every night if you make that sound each time.”

I pinch my lips together, ears going hot with embarrassment. I try not to laugh, but a small chuckle pops out of my mouth. Nik bites his bottom lip and then shoves an abnormally large amount of pasta into his mouth, washing it down with several gulps of wine.

We finish eating, and when I try to help clean, Nik picks me up and hauls me over to the couch.

“Sit and relax.” He brings me a book that I pretend to read while he does the dishes and packs up the extra food. Truth is, I can’t seem to equate Nik cooking and cleaning with the Bratvaman he is. In fact, him being home longer than a few hours to sleep is new territory.

I fiddle with the pages in the book, sneaking peeks at Nik and savoring this moment—this domestic picture of him in the kitchen. He turns to me, and I snap my eyes away, still not registering any words on the page.

“How’s the book?”

“Umm, good,” I say, smiling at him.

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