Page 56 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
“Thanks,” she manages to say, taking a small step back for distance.
“No wonder my brother insists on taking you out as often as he does,” Sergey teases, lightly nudging my arm.
I exhale, vaguely annoyed but also a touch humored by his carefree attitude.
Lily sits beside me stiffly while we join them, and Sergey goes on about everything and nothing at the same time. It’s mostly business talk that I hardly doubt either of the women here would care about, but I let him carry on anyway.
I’m listening, but I keep most of my attention on Lily.
It’s not out of the ordinary for her to be tense in these situations, but she seems to be even more so at the moment. Her fingers tighten in her lap, and I eventually notice how her skin looks paler than it had only moments ago.
While the other woman asks Sergey something, I lean in and murmur lowly so only Lily can hear me. “Are you alright?”
She nods too quickly and seems to throw herself off balance in the meantime. She swallows hard, and her gaze looks less focused than usual. “I’m fine…I think I just need some air.”
But she doesn’t get up. Instead, she just lingers, looking like she’s not entirely in the room with us.
It lasts long enough for Sergey to notice through his tipsy state. His brows furrow with subtle concern. “Lily, are you feeling okay?”
This time, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, her shoulders stiffen, and without warning, she doubles forward.
Instinctively, I grab her arm before she can go too far, then it happens in a blink.
One moment, she’s completely still, and the next, she’s vomiting. All over Sergey’s polished shoes as he stares down in horror.
“For the love of—” he yanks himself back despite the damage already being done, cursing in our native tongue. The woman beside him squeals and gets out of the way.
Concern floods my system as she loses her dinner right then and there, and I grab the ice bucket, dumping the contents before holding it out for her. She clutches it tightly and continues to retch.
“Fucking hell,” Sergey mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Despite my brother’s complaints, I gently keep my hold on Lily’s arm, seeing just how clammy and flushed her skin is as she pulls back up again.
She’s mortified immediately, but more so than that, she looks plain sick. Not hungover or anxious—sick.
As she lets go of a shuddery breath, I carefully help her up while she holds the bucket close to her chest. “Come on…”
Not resisting, Lily manages a small nod before shuffling forward, tucked beneath my arm.
Other patrons stare and murmur among themselves, but I shoot Sergey a sharp look.
“Handle it.”
Instinctively, he nods and sighs, and as he continues to mumble about his new shoes, I guide Lily out.
Keeping a steady hand against her back the whole time, I lead her to the Range Rover waiting for us and help her climb in the back. The driver heads for home, and I rest a hand on her covered thigh.
She leans her head against the cool window and keeps her eyes shut, not saying a word the whole way.
And by the time I get her inside, she curls up on the couch, still staying quiet.
I don’t like the way the color doesn’t return to her face, especially not while she trembles faintly beneath the blanket.
Lily can be many things, and she can certainly be closed off when she wants to be, but never like this. Not without a scowl or the occasional glare to let me know she’s annoyed with me.
This is different.
“What are you feeling?” I ask while sitting beside her, not letting her out of my sight for a moment.
