Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Nikolai stared at Mikhail, his brain churning on the words The one who saved your life.
His dream came back to him, only…it wasn’t a dream. Was it? Not all of it, anyway.
Ignoring the hit-by-a-bus pain that racked his body, Nikolai flew forward and swung his legs off the bed. He ripped the IV from his right arm and reached for the left.
“My lord!” Mikhail grabbed his wrist, stilling him. “What are you doing?”
Nikolai ignored his friend’s use of the title. Despite refusing to lead his kingdom, he couldn’t get his warriors to treat him as if they were all the same. And they were. Hell, the others were arguably better—they hadn’t dishonored themselves, and across the board had handled losing two of their comrades far better. After a while, he’d mostly stopped making an issue of the “my lord” crap.
He shrugged off Mikhail’s grip and glared up at him. “Take me to her.”
The warrior shook his head. “You’re hours out of surgery, still low on blood volume, and now bleeding again.” He sighed and gestured at the crook of Nikolai’s arm. “She can wait.”
His tone regarding the girl rankled Nikolai. “She saved me,” he said, mostly to himself, trying out the idea. He struggled to wade through the pain and disorientation to remember what had actually happened. He could hear her voice, feel her arms embracing him… “No… Fuck, no. I attacked her.” He nailed Mikhail with a stare. “Didn’t I?”
“I don’t know.” He scrubbed his face. “When we got there, she was holding you. Defending you with your own gun. Her wrist was a mess, though.”
Nikolai tore out the second IV and rose to his feet before Mikhail had a chance to react. She’d not only saved him, but held him, protected him. He had to see her. To put a face to the deeds, to the jumble of emotions roiling within. “Get me some clothes.”
“Nikolai—”
“Clothes, damnit.” Mikhail nodded and left, and Nikolai sagged against the mattress.
Why the hell was he acting this way? So she’d fed him. So what? Feeding from humans wasn’t remarkable, though none had ever rearranged his insides the way the mere idea of this one seemed to.
He just needed to put a face to the actions. Appease his curiosity. That would drive away this incessant yearning to get to her, to be with her.
He pushed off the bed and crossed to the sink. Aw, he looked like hell.
Blood-matted, tangled hair. He peeled back the thick gauze on the right side of his neck. The crisscrossing black of the stitches stood out in sharp relief against the angry red of the healing wound. A few more hours and he could remove them altogether. He dropped the bandage to the trash can.
The cold water he splashed on his face made him yearn for a shower. Well, since Mikhail was taking his sweet-ass time…
A small bathroom in the corner had a shower stall his body filled completely. But it did the job. The water ran red around his feet—leftover blood, nothing fresh. His lineage was strong, virile, granting him the ability to heal quickly.
And the girl’s blood out in the field, when things had been do-or-die critical, didn’t hurt, either. In fact, it had been the difference between life and death.
He whipped a towel off the rack and scrubbed it over his hair and skin, wincing as he passed over his neck. He wrapped a second towel around his hips. When he walked back into the infirmary room, he found Mikhail sitting in the chair waiting. He jutted his chin toward the bed, directing Nikolai’s gaze to a pile of clothing with a manila folder sitting on top. He picked it up. “What’s this?”
“Information. On the girl. She had a passport and cell phone. Leo ran them.”
Nikolai flipped the folder open.
Katherine Ann Bordessa. From Washington, D.C. American exchange student at the Moscow University for the Humanities. Fluent in English, Russian, and French.
He scanned farther down. “Oh, goddammit.”
“Yeah,” Mikhail said as he rose from his seat.
“Her parents sit on the North American Electorate Council.” His desire to speak to her went from curiosity to necessity. He needed to learn what happened between them and ensure it didn’t escalate into some sort of diplomatic incident. For now, he knew enough. He chucked the papers to the bed and grabbed some clothes.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“Stop calling me that?”
Mikhail just stared at him, mouth shut but posture speaking volumes.
Nikolai stepped into black pants, part of his typical street-fighting uniform, and yanked them to his waist. He reached for the little leather pouch he always carried on him. That his friend thought to bring this to him made his throat go tight. He cleared it as he tucked the memento in his front pocket.
“Where is she?” he asked, tugging a T-shirt over his head. When Mikhail didn’t answer, he turned.