Chapter 13 - Boris

I have been shot, sliced, and even once nearly crushed in a junkyard, and nothing amounts to the pain in my side at this moment. And still, even the pain in my side is nothing compared to the pain of watching Fiona bend over me, her tits in my face, and there being nothing I can do about it.

She still believes Olive is innocent. I still think there's no way we can know the truth about that. I can't, in good conscience, take her with the knowledge that I may need to harm her friend in the future. It's painful, but if I have to choose between Fiona and the Family, I have to choose the family. It's my duty as leader.

"Lift your arm," she says, and I grunt, doing my best to lift it, even as the pain ripples down my side, searing along my ribs. The second I see the motherfucker who stabbed me, I'm ending his miserable life. Actually, on second thought, I may spend some time torturing him first, get him to feel the pain I'm feeling. The pain he intended to inflict on Fiona.

Every time I think about it, the moment of realizing she was in danger, I try to think about my thought process. Logically, I should have let her take the knife. It was meant for her, for one thing, and for another, if I died from the stab wound, the Family would have been left in disarray. My siblings would be grieving.

According to Fiona, she has nobody to miss her.

Except me.

And that's the thing that I can't avoid about this situation—I care a lot more about Fiona than I would like to. It's part of the reason why I haven't been spending a lot of time on the Olive initiative—hurting her so I can hurt James Allard When I put it off, I put off the moment Fiona no longer wants anything to do with me.

"Hold still," Fiona murmurs as she unravels the bandages around my wound. It's one of the worst pains I've ever felt in my life, and I have to breathe through it as she pulls out the packing and replaces it with fresh gauze. "Almost done," she says, grinning up at me, "you're being such a brave little boy."

I press my lips together, refusing to give her the smile she's looking for. She's been caring for me all week—changing my bandages according to Anton's instructions, bringing me meals to help me "regain my strength," and even reading to me. When I said I wanted to get back to work, she brought my ledgers and accounts to the bedroom, laying them out in front of me and saying I could do them from bed.

All I wanted was to get away from her. With her constantly hovering over me, I have had nothing but time to examine her body, seeing how her ass curves in her little booty shorts, how her midriff is exposed when she opens the curtains in the morning, how her fingers turn the pages of her book so delicately.

I want those fingers on my body. And I wake up every night, covered in sweat, the wound in my side screaming in pain because I've been dreaming of Fiona—of her riding me, under me, over the side of the bed.

It's all-consuming. If I thought it was bad to see her done up in her little dress at the club, it's even worse now that she's lounging around in shorts and a camisole daily, her shoulders, legs, and back on display. It's so much skin. Skin that I want to touch, kiss, and memorize every inch of.

This isn't normal lust. I'm aware of that, I think as I picture kneeling before her in the shower, the water dripping down her body, her thighs opening for me, the way her body would writhe around me, how much pleasure I could give her.

I picture her standing above me, holding that knife to my throat, and my cock is immediately hard.

But I can't get Fiona to leave me alone, even for two minutes, so I can try to take care of the problem myself. Yesterday, when it was becoming more than I could stand, I'd said, through gritted teeth, "I'm craving some of that watermelon stuff Anton made. Think you could grab me some?"

"Oh," Fiona had said, smiling when there was a knock at the door. "I was actually craving some too—so I already asked Ivan to bring some."

I'd groaned internally for five whole minutes, which led to Fiona feeding me the sorbet, taking turns giving herself bites, then scooping it out and spooning it into my mouth. At one point, she dropped a dollop of it onto her breasts, and it felt like my soul left my body as I watched it melt, dripping down her cleavage. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than to lap it up, trail my tongue from the swell of her breasts and down to her navel, touching—

"All done," she says now, jolting me out of my thoughts. She lets out a breath and uses the back of her arm to swipe over her forehead, brushing away a few pieces of stray hair. "It looks like it's healing well. By tomorrow, we may be able to take the bandages off altogether. Maybe I should become a nurse, huh?"

The thought of her in scrubs makes my chest tight. The thought of other men ogling her in scrubs makes me immediately jealous, though they're imaginary men in a fake scenario.

"Pain meds," she says, turning and holding out a little white pill and a glass of water. I take them dutifully before relaxing against the pillows. It usually takes them about an hour to kick in, but the relief is so good.

"Now, we can go ahead and do a sponge bath," she says, gathering up the trash from the bandages. "Just let me get the water—"

"No," I say, remembering how torturous the last one was. "I can take a shower."

"But the doctor said—"

"Doctors always underestimate me," I say, trying to grin at her as I force myself out of bed. The pain is blinding, but I must get out of this room.

"Boris, the bandages," she says, hurrying along behind me, but I slip into the bathroom and shut the door before she can come in with me. The last thing I need is to have her in here, confined in the tight space, her body even closer to mine.

As I lean against the door, breathing heavily, I realize there are spots in my vision, and I sit down heavily on the edge of the tub, gripping tightly to consciousness. I can't pass out now—first, because it would be embarrassing, and second, because that will put me right back where I started.

I know Fiona is taking care of me like this because she wants to repay me for saving her life. I need to show her that I can take care of myself and get her to back off. She hasn't even tried anything to escape since I was stabbed, which, now that I'm out of commission would be much easier to do.

"Boris," Fiona says through the door, "I don't hear the shower running. Are you okay?"

I stand up laboriously.

"I'm fine," I say, still feeling woozy. "Just—go take a walk or something."

"You're actually telling me to take a hike?" she laughs through the door. "Come on, Boris, you could barely stand yesterday when the doctor came. Just let me give you a sponge bath. I promise I'll check the temperature better this time."

Though my body is rocking back and forth, I start to undress, but it's a struggle to even get my shirt off. A moment later, when I'm leaning against the wall, Fiona opens the door.

"Hey—" I start, trying to focus on her as the room spins. "I locked that—"

"Bobby pin," she says before tucking it back into her hair. "You want to get better? Come back to bed."

Come back to bed .

I groan at her choice of wording, and she reaches out, putting a hand on my bicep. I'm very near to reaching the end of my rope with her.

Fiona leads me back to bed, and I go with her, feeling the wooziness subside as I lay back against the pillows. I put knife wounds on my list of things I hate.

"Here, just let me—"

Fiona's breasts come into view when she leans over me to adjust my pillows, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm reaching over, ignoring the pain in my side, and pulling her up onto the bed, settling her in my lap.