Page 184 of Blood & Snow
Xander presses a kiss to my forehead then sits back, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"If you had died in that bakery, I don't know what I would've done. Burned the entire city, probably. Killed everyone who played any part in taking you from me."
"Xander—"
"I love you,Ptichka. More than I love my own life. Markov can order me to abandon you, but I'll disobey every time."
His words are so forceful I can't think straight.
He means every single syllable and it only makes the tears come faster.
"I love you too," I manage between gasping breaths.
"I love you and I'm so sorry for trying to walk away."
"Shh. You're safe now. That's all that concerns me."
He finishes washing me, then helps me from the tub and wraps me in towels so soft it feels like it was woven from angels' feathers.
My legs barely support my weight as heguides me toward the bedroom where he lays me down gently, then strips off his tactical vest and bloodstained clothing.
When he joins me on the bed, skin against skin under the comforter, the world narrows to just us.
His finger tips touch every bruise and scrape left by my captors and I see the rage in his eyes as he comes to understand how much this whole thing affected me.
When he lifts his eyes to meet mine I swear I see tears there.
"I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure no one ever hurts you again," he murmurs against my throat.
"You can't promise that," I tell him, trying to protest, but he takes my chin in his hand and forces my eyes to meet his.
"Watch me," he says before kissing me tenderly.
His lips linger against mine, and I cling to him with what little strength I have left.
The kiss is tender, not claiming.
It’s a vow, whispered in the way his mouth moves against mine, in the way his hand steadies my face so carefully.
I let myself sink into it because I don’t have to be strong here.
“You’re mine,” he grumbles against my skin.
“No one will ever take you from me again.”
He moves his hand down my side, over the towel still clinging to me, skimming bruises without pressing.
When his palm cups my breast through the terrycloth, a soft sound escapes my throat.
He peels the towel away, baring me inch by inch as though unwrapping something precious.
“Every mark they left, I’ll erase,” he murmurs.
“With my hands. With my mouth.”
His head lowers and his lips follow the path his fingers traced, kissing each bruise, each scrape, until heat blooms where pain used to live.
The restraint in him is palpable—shoulders tight, jaw set—but he’s holding it back for me, notbecause he doubts but because he’s determined not to hurt me.
