61. Chapter 61

61

Clara

T he water beats against the fancy marble tiles—because heaven forbid Leonid should have anything normal in this place. Steam wraps around me like an expensive blanket, making my hair stick to my neck as I lean against the wall for support. My ribs scream at me with every breath, reminding me why taking a shower shouldn’t feel like an Olympic event. Leave it to me to make something as simple as getting clean turn into a full-body workout. At least the hot water should help, though right now, it’s doing absolutely nothing for the knots in my muscles except making me feel very sore.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, wincing as I try to shrug out of my cardigan. The cashmere clings to my damp skin, the stubborn fabric refusing to budge. Every movement sends jolts of pain through my ribcage, and I have to bite my lip to keep from cursing loudly enough to wake Elijah in the next room.

“You’d think I’m wrestling a bear,” I huff, gripping the edge of the counter for stability.

Thud.

The bedroom door clicks shut.

My heart stops.

“No, no, no,” I whisper, frantically trying to cover myself with the cardigan I just managed to remove. The bathroom door is still partially open because, apparently, I’ve lost all survival instincts along with my ability to dress myself.

Heavy footsteps approach. “Clara?”

Leonid’s deep voice sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with being half-naked.

“Don’t come in!” I yelp, pressing myself against the marble counter. “I’m… indisposed!”

A pause. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my dignity.” I clutch the cardigan tighter. “I’ll be fine, just… go away?”

The footsteps come closer. “You’re in pain. I heard you from the hallway.”

“That’s just my natural charm showing through.” My voice comes out higher than intended. “Really, I’m—”

The door swings open, and there he is—towering, bare-chested, and entirely too composed for someone barging into a bathroom uninvited. He’s wearing nothing but black sweatpants riding low on his hips, his chest bare and still glistening with sweat from whatever violence he’s been practicing.

My gaze darts up, but the damage is done. Heat rushes to my cheeks.

“What are you—?” I clutch at the cardigan like it’s my last line of defense, backing up against the counter. “I told you not to come in!”

His eyes flick to the cardigan, the bruises peeking out from the disheveled fabric, and then back to my face. There’s no smirk, no quip—just that unnerving intensity that makes my breath hitch.

“Move over,” he says simply, stepping inside like it’s his bathroom and not the scene of my impending mortification.

I gape at him, words failing me as he moves closer, the heat of him cutting through the steam. “Leonid—”

“Relax.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing mine as he takes hold of the stubborn cardigan. His movements are maddeningly gentle, and before I can protest, he’s slipping it off my shoulder with an ease that makes me want to scream. “You’re hurt. Stop being stubborn.”

“I wasn’t—” The lie dies on my lips as his hand lingers, tracing the edge of a bruise just below my ribs. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, the calm mask slips, revealing something darker.

“You shouldn’t be doing this alone,” he murmurs, his voice low but firm. His thumb brushes against my skin.

“I didn’t want to wake Elijah,” I manage. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

“Turn around,” he says quietly.

“I’d rather not,” I squeak, holding the cardigan like a shield.

“Clara.” His voice softens, but carries that edge of command that makes my knees weak. “Let me help you.”

“The last time you ‘helped’ me, I ended up—” I stop mid-sentence, a grunt of pain escaping as I move too quickly. His scent hits me then—gunpowder and cedarwood, with something raw and masculine underneath that makes my toes curl. The combination of hot steam and his presence is doing dangerous things to my common sense.

His lips twitch. “That was different.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.” He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “That was for punishment. This is for care.”

Something in his tone makes my heart flutter. I stay frozen as he gently takes the cardigan from my trembling fingers and sets it aside. His calloused hands hover over my shoulders, not quite touching.

“May I?”

The vulnerability in that question undoes me. I nod, not trusting my voice.

I sigh, letting my walls come down. The stubborn, independent part of me that always needs to be in control gives way to something softer, something that wants to trust in the tenderness of his touch. For once, I let myself be taken care of.

His fingers trace the edge of my bra strap with devastating gentleness. “Breathe, solnishko .”

I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. When I exhale, some of the tension leaves my body. His large hands grip my shoulders, turning me to face the mirror. The movement is gentle but deliberate, and my breath catches again at the sight of us reflected in the steamy glass—my small frame dwarfed by his towering presence behind me.

His hands move with practiced ease, unhooking the clasp I’d been fighting with.

“You’ve had practice with this,” I murmur, trying to mask my nervousness with sarcasm.

Instead of smirking or making a suggestive comment, he simply says, “I’ve had practice taking care of wounds.” His fingers ghost over a particularly dark bruise on my side. “And the people who matter to me.”

The words hang in the steamy air between us, heavy with meaning. I meet his eyes in the mirror again, seeing past the dangerous exterior to something deeper, something that makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with my injuries.

“Leonid…” My voice cracks on his name.

His hand splays across my lower back, steadying me. “Let me take care of you, Clara. Just for tonight.”

I lean back against him, letting his warmth seep into my skin. But there’s tension in his frame that wasn’t there before, a rigidity to his shoulders that speaks of carefully controlled anger. Something’s wrong. The tenderness in his touch doesn’t match the storm I can see brewing behind his eyes.

“Who…?” I hesitate, then turn to face him fully. “Who’s here?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then his fingers brush my cheek.

“Ludis.”

“Ludis, your brother?”

“Yes. I thought he should know about the… truth.” The defeat in his voice makes my chest ache.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s angry. Full of hate. And now…” His voice catches. “His daughter Marina was taken.”

“Daughter?” The word comes out as a whisper.

“Long story,” he says, tension radiating through every line of his body.

I turn in his arms, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. My hands find his face, thumbs brushing along his jawline.

“Listen to me,” I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “He’s your brother. Your blood. And trust me…” My voice catches as Jake’s face flashes through my mind. “If I had a chance to see my brother again, even if he hated me, I’d move heaven and earth to make it right.”

Something breaks in his expression. His mouth finds mine, tender at first, then hungry. His fingers find the drawstring of my silk pants, tugging until they pool at my feet.

His mouth hovers just above mine, his breath hot against my lips. “The things you do to me, solnishko ,” he growls, his voice rough with need. “Making me want to forget about everything except how perfect you feel in my arms.”

I reach up to touch his face, but he catches my wrist, pressing a kiss to my palm that makes my knees weak. His other hand slides down my bare back, pulling me closer until there’s nothing between us.

“Ludis can wait,” he murmurs against my skin. “Right now, I need to show you exactly what you mean to me.”