Page 42 of Possessive Vows

She nods and winces when she settles her bruised arm back into her lap. After a sigh of frustration, she pulls the ice pack off her arm and struggles to her feet. I shift forward to help her, but she sends me a withering glare and shakes her head.

“I’ve caused enough chaos today, so I’ll finish treating my wounds on my own,” she says.

I rise from my slouch.

“Camilla,” I warn.

She lifts a brow in a haughty expression.

“I failed to protect you. Let me treat your bruises,” I say.

I have never pleaded in my life, but I come close in this moment. Her self-disgust angers me, but the misery and loneliness in her eyes aches deep in my chest.

She shakes her head and exclaims, “I gave you a bloody nose!”

I smile in vicious satisfaction at her outburst. She cares for me, even if she will never admit it.

“Da,you did. I will take a thousand more to earn your trust,” I say.

She freezes mid step and hugs herself as she turns to face me.

“Stop talking like a crazy person. I’m broken, Dimitri. Everywhere you touch me will send me flying into a panic.”

“Not everywhere,” I say.

She scowls.

I hold out my hand, palm up, but give her the option of saying no.

Yearning fills her expression, but instead of taking what she wants, she studies my face, searching for signs of deceit.

She finds none.

Like a timid ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, she sidles closer and slowly slips her hand into mine, not because she fears me, but because she doubts herself.

Her sigh of relief when she doesn’t lose herself to nightmares fills my heart with pride.

I lead her into the bathroom and lean against the wall, giving her space while still holding her hand.

“Let me help without touching you,so´lnyshka,” I say.

“How?” she asks.

“Hold your collar out of the way,” I say.

She drops my hand, tilts her head forward, and pulls her shirt down at the back, exposing her nape. I bite back a snarl at the dark bruises and reddened flesh.

She watches out of the corner of her eye as I open a bandage and smear ointment onto the pad. Moving slowly, I lift it to her nape, settle it over the worst bruise, and check her expression before smoothing it down with my fingers.

“Is okay?” I ask.

“Yes, but don’t stay too long,” she says.

Her voice shakes and hands tremble on her collar. I move on to the next bandage and proceed with the same meticulous care, never touching her skin but pampering her as much as she’ll allow.

Once I cover all the bruises on her nape, I slip my hand under hers and lift her swollen forearm parallel with the sink. After squeezing almost half the tube of arnica ointment onto her forearm, I shift my focus to her face and nearly laugh at the disgust twisting her features.

When she reaches over to smear it in, I grab a piece of gauze from the stack and block her with my hand.

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