Page 44 of Plus-Size Bride Forced By the Bratva
I was in my study later that evening, shirtless, drinking directly from a bottle of vodka. It helped me stay focused while I nursed my wounded arm. I was stitching my torn flesh when I heard a soft knock on the door.
My gaze flicked toward the entrance, and before I could ask who it was, the door creaked open. A flutter rose in my chest when I set eyes on her, wondering what she was doing here. She should be resting.
“Can I come in?” Ravyn asked me, her voice soft and polite.
This was the first time she had knocked and asked for permission to come into my study. Strange.
I nodded once.
She walked inside and closed the door behind her, her arms folded across her chest. Her honey-blonde hair was damp, her perfume blending with the scent of soap and shampoo, hinting that she’d just stepped out of the shower.
She was wearing a pair of jean shorts that hugged her hips and an oversized sweater with sleeves that swallowed her arms. In her eyes was a glint of something I’d yet to name, something lighter than usual. She drew closer, her bare feet soundless against the floor.
“Need a hand with that?” She nodded at my wounded arm.
I hesitated for a second. “I’m good.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you are.” She dragged a nearby chair, her tone laced with sarcasm.
Ravyn sat in front of me and took my hand, her beautiful blue eyes examining the wound. “Hold still,” she said. “I’ll take it from here.”
I couldn’t dissuade her at this point; her mind was made up. She was determined to stay and help. Maybe she needed the distraction because stitching me up would keep her mind busy.
She was too shaken to be alone anyway.
Chapter 21 —Ravyn
“It looks nasty,” I said softly, my voice gentle as I examined the gash along his strong arm.
“Don’t make mountains out of molehills,” he said, stealing a glance at me. “It’s just a graze.”
My gaze flicked to his face, then to the blood seeping from his wounded arm. “It looks nastier than just a graze.” I wiped the gash with a white handkerchief soaked in a bowl of bloodied water at his feet.
The leather sofa crunched beneath his weight as he leaned back in it, his hand resting on the armrest. I pulled my chair closer, my hand steady as the needle pierced his skin. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He just sat there in silence, watching me as though he couldn’t feel a damn thing.
That level of composure in such a situation was rather remarkable. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to act so calmly if I were in his shoes.
He reached for the bottle of vodka beside him, lifted it to his lips, and took a gulp.
I ignored the metallic tang of blood that hung in the air, mingling with the sharp scent of disinfectant and vodka. My fingers worked with practiced ease as I stitched him up, each pull of the thread drawing the wound closed.
I could feel the weight of his gaze lingering on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. My attention was focused on the job at hand—pun intended. Although every so often, my eyes would flick toward his broad torso and chiseled abs.
Lev was an attractive man. Yes. But under that shirt, he was even more attractive than I’d thought. I’d seen him shirtless a few times, but never got this close-up view, and honestly, it was distracting.
I was really trying hard to focus and finish the job, but his ridiculously attractive body wouldn’t let me. Being so close to the man who ignited a sexual fire inside me was more difficult than I expected.
My heart was banging like a drum, and my fingers were trembling. Not just because I was still a little shaken by the attack, but also because I was way too close to Lev.
Concentrate on the stitch, Ravyn, the stitch,I thought to myself.
But my eyes refused to obey, and my gaze kept drifting back to his hot body. I found myself subtly tracing the ridges of his defined abs, the sweep of his broad chest and shoulders.
Around such a work of art, it was next to impossible to stay composed, let alone focused on a job. No matter how hard I tried not to look at his body, I simply couldn’t, and I hated myself a little for lacking self-control.
The room was heavy with unspoken tension, and for a second there, I hoped that he couldn’t hear the sound of my racing heart. Fuck, that would be embarrassing. I should say something, do something other than nurse his wound—anything to ease this tension before it consumed me.
However, nothing came to mind. Nothing at all. It was as though my brain had abandoned me at a crucial time like this. I cleared my throat, eyes fixed on the stitch while my fingers worked their magic.
