Page 86 of The Princess and the Rogue

Relief was easy to identify, the relief of having Anya finally wake up and smile at him again. Frustration was there too, and restlessness, and a low-level anger that should have been extinguished along with Petrov’s life, but still seemed to persist with no particular target.

He let out a huff of air. God, Anya had probably shaved ten years off his life. His hair would doubtless turn prematurely grey from the combination of worry and shock of almost losing her. Despite all his experience of battle, he couldn’t think of a time when he’d ever felt so desperate or so frightened as when he’d discovered her being held hostage, with Petrov’s gun to her head. Or when he’d thought she might not recover from the sleeping draught.

He scowled at the view in front of him, not really seeing it. It was because he’d never felt for anyone else whathe felt for her. True, he’d worried for his friends during the war, but Alex and Ben had been highly skilled and as capable as himself of getting out of trouble. Anya had been defenseless.

Seb let out another huff. Well,almostdefenseless. She’d stabbed Petrov in the arm with a map pin. And drugged him too. Brave girl.

The mews yard beyond his window was dark, the cobbles and rooftops of St. James’s silvered with moonlight. The stars looked as if some slapdash baker had flung a handful of flour across the night sky. Seb glared upward. Those stars were an illusion. From this distance, they looked cold and insubstantial, but up close, each was its own fiery sun.

Anya was like that—cool and unattainable from afar, blindingly attractive when you got close.

Not that he’d have the chance to get close to her ever again. Now that her brother was back in her life, she’d doubtless be going back to Russia to reclaim all her bloody palaces and vodka distilleries and the like.

He could hear the two of them in the bedroom, chattering away in Russian, presumably catching up and making plans that most surely didn’t include him. Why would she even consider marrying an English gaming club owner when the world was once again at her feet?

Infuriated with himself, and life in general, Seb tugged open the cuffs of his shirt. He’d already discarded his ruined coat and boots during the agonizing hours he’d spent at Anya’s side, willing her to wake up. Both jacket and boots were beyond repair. Much like his heart.

He ran his hand over his jaw and winced at the prickles. He hadn’t shaved for two days. God, he must look a wreck.

Denisov stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him.

“Now that Anya appears to be out of any danger, I’m going to retire. Will you ensure that someone’s on hand all night, in case she has need of anything?”

“Of course.” Seb nodded and saw him out, then glanced at the bedroom door, listening for any sounds from within. Was Anya asleep again? Should he go in and check on her?

Resisting the temptation to see her again, he returned to his place at the window.

Bringing her to his rooms had been a mistake. Seeing her lying in his bed was both a pleasure and a torture. He wanted her to wake there every day, for his to be the first face she saw each morning.

Impossible.

The click of the bedroom door made him turn. Anya hovered in the doorway dressed in one of his dark red Banyan robes. She must have filched it from his dressing chest. Little thief. He tightened his grip on the window frame.

Did she have anything onunderthe robe? The two sides were crossed high at the neck, and it was so long it puddled on the floor around her feet.

He managed an unwelcoming scowl. “What are you doing out of bed? You need to rest.”

She didn’t look deterred by his gruff voice and fearsome glower, nor did she appear any the worse for her near-death experience. She sent him an easy smile that nevertheless heated his blood.

“I’m not sleepy. I’ve done nothing but sleep for the past twenty-four hours.”

Seb prayed for strength. Her hair was loose around her face, a honey-colored river he wanted to fist. Did the bloody woman have no idea how attractive she looked, all rumpled and pink-cheeked? He stifled a groan.

She wandered into the room and leaned casually against the front edge of his desk.

“You promised Dmitri someone would be on hand all night. In case I had need of something.”

Seb frowned, instantly solicitous. “Do you? Have need of something?”

She bit one corner of her lip. “Oh, yes.”

Her tone was a mixture of innocence and wickedness. His pulse pounded against his ribs. “What do you need?”

She clasped her hands together in front of her and met his gaze. “I need to say thank you. For coming after me. For shooting Petrov. For everything.”

He shrugged, a quick lift and drop of his shoulders. “You’re welcome.”

“I was worried about you. I thought Vasili was going to shoot you.”

---