Chapter 35

Thirty-Five

R uby

It's no surprise after the drama of last night, that I wake with the flu. I've never been an easy crier. When I cry, I cry hard. And I'd been so angry last night. So heartsore.

Even after Kirill helped me out of my dress, ran the brush through my hair and tucked me into bed, I'd been unable to stop crying. The emotions—or maybe the stress of my life in general—just kept pouring out of me.

Wave after wave of sorrow expelled from my body in torrents of terrible tears. Anger at Anya for ruining a perfectly wondrous night, and disgust at the man I shared blood with, who wanted nothing more than to destroy me for holding the love of an evil man. Anger at the man I've fallen madly, achingly in love with.

Usually, when I cry hard like this, I wake with a stuffy nose and symptoms of a head cold. Today, I'm vomiting.

"Get out," I moan over the bowl of the toilet after my most recent episode. He ignores me, as he's ignored me every time before. I try to shoo him away with a weak wave of my hand. "I'm done now. Please, go away."

"Stop telling me to go away." Kirill wrings out the cloth before he returns to press the cool material to my forehead. "Is there anything I can get you?"

The idea of food makes me want to die. "No."

"I think I should call a doctor."

"I'm fine. It's a flu." I'm so tired. But I stink like vomit. "I need a shower."

Kirill dips his chin, then he sets to stripping me of my panties. I'd shed his shirt two vomit sessions ago when I'd felt so overheated, I thought I might die. I'd flopped back on the cold tile, my skin dewy with sweat. That's when he'd fished out the damp cloth, trying to bring down my fever.

It had worked, sort of.

"Maybe I ate something bad at the ball."

"I ate everything you ate."

That's right, he did. Except the glass of champagne. He'd refused to allow me to drink, telling me he wanted me sober as he handed me a glass of apple juice.

"Maybe the juice was bad." I moan. "I'll never drink apple juice again."

"It's not the juice, Ruby."

"Well, I feel like death!" I snap. "And you're hovering like a hen, so you're bound to get it."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"Whatever," I snap. "You're not God, you know. You're not invincible." He gestures me into the shower he's set to lukewarm, and I step inside, muttering a small, "Thank you."

He grins, because he knows I'm in a mood, as anyone would be if they'd spent the first hour of their morning hugging the toilet bowl after a night like last night.

"I know I'm not invincible, Ruby." He closes the door behind me. "But I also don't get sick often."

I frown at him. Since we showered together that first time, if he's home and I'm showering, he's showering, too. "You're not joining me?"

"If I join you, I'll want to fuck you. I don't think you're in a state to be fucked."

I feel my lips form a pout. Goodness, I'm a mess. "I'm feeling better."

Kirill barks a laugh. It's loud and abrupt and he reins it back rather quick. "Maybe later, wife."

His eyes dance handsomely as he watches me scrub my rose shampoo into my hair. And then he watches me as I scrub my rose soap into my body. He looks like a dark devil standing there in the low light, watching me with a hunger he refuses to satisfy.

I can't help myself as I watch him through the glass. "You know, you're the most handsome man I've ever seen."

The hunger intensifies, but he doesn't move. It's probably a good thing, because as much as I always seem to want him lately, he's right. I'm in no state for it.

By the end of my shower, I'm exhausted to the bone.

I don't even bother to put on a stitch of clothing before I've fallen into the bed, fast asleep.

I wake from my nap with renewed energy and a hankering for apple cookies. Hormones suck. I've always been a big before period and during period food craver. So, it's no surprise to me that I haven't shaken my apple cookie craving, considering I hadn't gotten even a single cookie from my last baking session.

Throwing on comfy clothes, I head to the kitchen to start yet another batch of apple cookies. I decide to triple the batch, this time, however.

To my surprise, the kitchen is empty, but there are two massive dishes of prepped lasagna in the fridge. Dinner, I assume.

I pluck an apple from the bowl on the table, slicing it. I munch on the slices between mixing ingredients, and then thank the oven gods that there is not only a stove oven, but a double stacked wall oven, too. I guess that's a normal thing for a house that houses, and feeds, an astonishing number of men.

At least baking cookies goes fast this way, I think, as I pull my last tray from the ovens. I transfer the cooled cookies to a container, before leaving the hot cookies on the cooling rack. With my tub of cookies, I'm about to head back to the bedroom for a book and cookie binge, when I stop short.

Kirill is leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, watching me with a soft expression that is so out of place, it's jarring.

"Oh." I laugh lightly. "You surprised me."

"More apple cookies, I see?"

"I made a triple batch today." I give my tub of cookies a shake. "I was smart this time. I've taken some hostage."

"The men won't touch your cookies again."

I stiffen. "What, why?"

"I've threatened them with death if they do."

My mouth falls open. I swear, it might just hit the floor. "Why would you do a thing like that?"

"You were unhappy."

"Kirill! You go and un-threaten everyone. I made the guys cookies, for frick sake!"

Mirth flickers in his eyes. "I just can't make you happy, can I?"

"Stop being so extreme." I roll my eyes. "I'm serious. If these cookies get hard, I'm going to be ticked."

"Ticked."

"Pissed."

He chuckles. "I know what ticked is, wife."

I give him firm eyes. "Then go tell everyone there are fresh cookies."

"What are you going to do?" His eyes drag the length of me. The thread he somehow holds around my core gives a quick, sharp tug.

I give my tub another little jiggle as I promptly ignore the tug. "I'm going to read and eat cookies."

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"Yes."

"What did you eat?"

"An apple."

He rolls his tongue over his bottom lip. The move is oddly arousing. "I thought you were done with apples."

"Apple juice. That stuff is death."

"Right."

"Go on," I shoo. "Go tell everyone I made cookies."

Under his breath, he says, "As you wish, wife."

God, why did you make him perfect for me? Of all the men—why is he the one?