Page 28 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
“No, wait. It’s going to sting,” I blurt out.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, not this one. Not like the alcohol disinfectant does. It might burn a bit, but it won’t be bad.”
He picks up a piece of white gauze and begins to methodically clean the wound. He’s right, it doesn’t hurt as much as I expected, but it definitely has some spice to it as it soaks into my torn flesh.
I distract myself by watching Emmanuil, letting my eyes trace over his gorgeous face. The perfect lines of his strong, square jaw. His wide mouth and dark stubble. I have missed him every single day since I walked away.
Even now, looking at him aches deep in my heart.
I clear my throat to stop the tears burning at the back of my eyes. Crying won’t help anything. It won’t make him hate me any less. It won’t take me back in time to a moment where I could lie in his arms and hear him whisperI love youagainst my hair.
“I’m almost done,” he says gently, and I realize he’s looking at me. His face is soft and caring. His eyes are full of warmth. Up close like this, I can see the gorgeous dark green is flaked with tiny specks of gold.
He reaches out and brushes his fingers over my cheek. “The worst part is over. I’ve taped it closed, now I just need to bandage it so it can heal. And you’re safe, Anya. No one can reach you here. I’ll keep you safe.”
“No stitches?” I ask, quickly brushing away the one stupid tear that escaped.
“No stitches,” he smiles, a beautiful, genuine smile that melts my insides and sends another tear rolling down my face.
“All of the adrenaline is wearing off, kitten. You’re probably in shock. It’s okay to feel emotional or scared.”
I nod.
Thank goodness he doesn’t know what I’m really crying about.
I’m not scared. I’m not in shock.
But I’d rather have him assume that than realize I’m crying because I’m still in love with him.
“Let’s get you something to eat. Something sweet. The sugar will help. And a couple of painkillers.”
My leg is very neatly bandaged, wrapped professionally in clean white strips. It’s still throbbing, but manageable.
I move to stand up, and he’s instantly at my side with his arm around my waist. Being this close to him, half undressed, after his hands have been all over me—it’s dangerous. I find myself staring up at him, wide-eyed, still thinking about the past, wishing it had never ended.
Emmanuil’s breathing shifts. His fingers tighten over my waist, digging into me.
“Anya,” he says my name, a growl, a whisper.
“Yes?” I whisper in response.
He shakes his head, trying to break whatever spell he was momentarily under.
“Uh—can you walk?” he asks, his voice suddenly normal, his jaw tight.
“I can,” I say, sulkily, pushing him away.
But as I try to put my weight on the leg, it buckles beneath me, pain shooting up my thigh.
He catches me in his arms and lifts me, cradling me again. My cheeks flush pink. His hand wraps around my ass, sending waves of heat crashing through me. Fuck. This is horrible.
He clears his throat loudly.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll take you to bed. You should rest anyway. I’ll bring some food and meds up to you.”
I nod. Even though I don’t want to be alone, I have to accept that things will never be the same between us.
The man who once loved me was hurt so badly by what I did that he hates me now. That’s my reality. I can’t undo what I did. I can’t go back in time.
