Page 82 of Lethal Devotion
“Go back to bed, Sienna.” I keep walking, past her, giving her as wide of a berth as the hall will allow as I head toward my room. I hear her footsteps behind me, and I start to close the door in her face as she tries to follow me inside, but she’s too quick.
"Let me help you clean that up." Her face is set in stubborn lines, and I let out a breath, rubbing my hand over my mouth.
"I can handle it myself."
"I'm sure you can. I’m sure you always have, but you don't have to." She looks up at me, and there's something in her eyes that makes my chest tight. "Please, Damian. Let me help you."
Something in my chest aches, suddenly, that has nothing to do with my wounds.I’m sure you always have.She’s right. I’ve always taken care of myself. I’ve never relied on anyone. I couldn’t, before I came to work for the Abramovs. There was no one to rely on. And Victor Abramov taught me that reliance was weakness. That my own strength, my own armor, was all I could ever count on.
Now Sienna wants to strip me down to the barest essence of myself, to be there for me when I need comfort, when I need softness. I never thought I needed it before, but when she offers…
I feel like losing her, refusing her, will leave me hollow in a way that I never knew was possible before.
“Damian.” Her fingers curl around my wrist. “Come on. Is there a first-aid kit in your bathroom? How bad is it?”
“Sienna—”
“Please stop fighting me.” She looks at me, those green eyes soft and wide, and I feel myself crumble like I always do for her. Like I have, even before I realized it. Hauling her to the church and forcing her into saying those vows was the first example, even though at the time, I thought I was the one in control.
The truth is, she undid me from the moment I saw her, and I did something I’d never have thought to do for anyone else.
We walk into my bathroom, all black and marble, a more opulent space than anything I ever had growing up, but now it’s mine. My room, my place in this mansion, for the years of blood I’ve shed for the Abramovs.
Sienna flicks on the light, gesturing with one hand for me to sit. I don’t, yet—sitting would require movement that I know will hurt, and I’m not looking forward to it. “It’s on my ribs,” I tell her gruffly. “It’s probably going to be easier to clean and stitch if I’m standing. I can do it?—”
She ignores me, rifling through the cabinets under the sink until she finds what she’s looking for—a first-aid kit with antiseptic, tape, gauze, and other things that don’t come in your standard kit, like the needle and waxed thread necessary for stitching a wound. She sets everything on the counter, then looks back at me, a no-nonsense expression on her face that I suspect she’s given Adam before. I feel a little like I’m in trouble.
“Take off your shirt,” she says firmly, and the words hang in the air between us, thickening the tension already humming there. I see a slight flush creeping up her neck, see her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, and I’d find it appealing how much just the idea of me taking off my shirt gets to her if I wasn’t in so much pain.
If I wasn’t trying so hard to fight how I feel for her.
"Sienna." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "You should go back to your room."
"No." She moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heatradiating from her skin. "Take off your shirt, Damian. Let me see how bad it is."
I stare at her for a long moment, this woman who should be terrified of me, who should be running in the opposite direction instead of trying to take care of me. This woman, who's somehow managed to slip past every defense I've built, who makes me want things I thought I'd given up on years ago.
Slowly, I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, hissing as the movement pulls at the wound. Sienna's sharp intake of breath tells me it looks as bad as it feels.
"Jesus, Damian." Her fingers hover over the wound without quite touching it. "This isn't a scratch."
"I've had worse."
"That's not the point." She reaches for a clean washcloth, running it under warm water. "The point is that you're hurt, and you were going to try to take care of this yourself instead of asking for help."
"I don't ask for help."
"Maybe you should start." She wrings out the washcloth and looks at me. "This is going to hurt."
"I can handle it."
She nods and gently begins cleaning the blood away from the wound. Her touch is soft, careful, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from making a sound. Not from the pain—I can handle pain—but from the way her gentle ministrations are making me feel. Like I'm something worth taking care of. Like I'm something other than a weapon that the Abramov family molded for their own use. Not Konstantin—he’s never treated me like that, but his father. And all those lessons stuck.
“You didn’t tell me where you were going tonight.” She wrings out the washcloth, pink water swirling down the drain before she douses it again and goes back to cleaning the blood away from the weeping gash.
My jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you to worry. It was supposed to be a straightforward mission.”
"But it wasn’t, clearly. You could have been killed tonight," she says quietly, not looking up from her work.
