Page 78 of Christmas With The Kings
“My beloved,are you okay?”
The sight of her—worry filling her eyes, mouth drawn with increasing concern, and her tear-stained face—almost undid me all over again.
Get it together, fuckface. You need to be steady for her, clean her wounds, bathe her, put cream on her ass and get her an ice pack. She needs you.
The door clicked shut behind us, and I couldn’t find my footing. My legs gave out. The adrenaline that had carried me this far was gone. I sank to the floor, my back pressed against the wood for some stability.
I drew in a shaky breath that didn’t seem to reach my lungs. My throat felt tight, words bottled up with nowhere to go.
“Ivan,” she whispered.
That strange feeling inside my chest deepened. She cried out, running from the room.
Get your ass up, Blade.
The voices of my brothers—four of them—Alek, Nik, Bash, and Pasha screamed inside my head. But I couldn’t move. Then the voice of Marcel followed.
This is normal, Brother. Give yourself some grace.
A moment later, the soft patter of feet returned, and she was back. Red and green plaid caught my eye. A blanket? Her eyes searched mine with quiet purpose.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured confidently.
I didn’t have it in me to answer. She crawled into my lap, straddling me, and then threw a blanket over us. With extreme care, she tucked it around, cocooning the air between us. The warmth of her naked body pressed into mine, easing some of the ache.
Then, her fingers threaded through mine. Warm and grounding. She didn’t ask what was wrong. She rested her forehead against mine.
“I’ve got you,” she offered again, and something inside me cracked wide open. “Match my breathing, my beloved.”
Her chest rose. She exaggerated the inhale so I could follow. My breath hitched, jagged and loud. “Again, slower, this time, please. In…and out. You’re doing so good.”
Her thumb brushed over my knuckles in rhythm with her words.
“In through your nose,” she whispered, her tone smooth and unhurried. “Out through your mouth. That’s it.”
Her breath mingled with mine as I borrowed her peace. Each exhale took a little more of the chaos with it. I closed my eyes and let her voice pull me back from the edge.
When my breathing finally matched hers, she hummed, then sang. The melody was soft and familiar. With each low and haunting word that fell from her lips, my chest loosened.
Her voice carried memory, sorrow and love, filling all the cracks inside me that the encounter in the clearing had left behind. My eyes watered, and my breath shuddered. On the next inhale, I blew it out, cradling her head to my chest.
A Russian lullaby. This is what our children would hear. Experience. Fuck, I was a lucky bastard.
For the first time in my life, I let someone else hold the weight I usually carried. As she continued to sing, her hand came up to cup the back of my neck, her fingers tracing slow, comforting lines at my hairline. My heart slowed to match her rhythm. The storm in my head dulled to a murmur.
By the time her song ended, I realized I wasn’t shaking anymore. My hands were steady, and the world had stopped tilting.
She pressed her forehead to mine, her whisper soft between us. Reverently, she kissed my lips. “See, you’re okay, now.”
And I was. Because she had made sure of it.
“Happy Christmas, little love,” I breathed.
Kinsley
Chef Bonfils stood at the far end of the counter in his pristine white jacket, black pants, and eternal scowl. He made a sound halfway between a hiss and a sigh. “I want it on record that I’m going to have to replace every staple in this kitchen after today. Mon dieu, it will take me forever to reorganize.”
“I’ll help,” I offered sweetly.
