Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(46)

Maybe that’s because she’s already aware of my presence.

If so, she doesn’t show it. She doesn’t so much as glance backward before she plunges into the dark forest.

I follow behind her at a leisurely pace. I know that Jax and Gaiman are down below, ready to intercept if I lose sight of her. For now, I keep my eyes on her silhouette flitting between the snow-cloaked tree trunks.

She keeps a steady pace on her way down, but she veers right suddenly, walking away from the path.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I call after her.

She doesn’t turn around or slow down. “Stop following me.”

“Can’t do that. It would be a shame to have you die of frostbite after all the effort I’ve expended.”

“Oh, right,” she yells. “You’re not done using me yet, am I right? Still need me for something else?”

“Your son is the one that needs you.”

We play this game of follow-the-leader for several more minutes before her pace finally starts to slow. When I catch up to her, we’re surrounded by a thick wall of trees now, all of which have been stripped of their leaves and their life.

“You done with your tantrum yet?” I ask her.

She whips around. “Why are you following me?”

“Among other things, I’m trying to make sure you don’t get eaten by a bear,” I tell her.

She freezes. “There are bears out here?”

I nod. “Wolves, too. Which is why all this stomping around isn’t exactly a good thing.”

“Fuck.” She eyes the surrounding forest suspiciously.

“You lived in these mountains for almost a year,” I tell her. “You weren’t told there were wild animals roaming the forest?”

“I didn’t get out much.”

She tries to pull away and resume her wandering, but I grab her by the elbow. “You’re going to be dead on your feet soon.”

Eyes flashing, she shoves at my chest hard enough to break my grip on her. “Get out of my—”

The effect is lost when she stumbles back and lands ass-first in the snow.

I give her a moment, then squat down so I can look her in the eyes. “Satisfied now?” I ask. “This is no time for a night stroll. It’s below zero and you don’t even have a jacket on.”

She sets her jaw. “Just leave me here.”

“So you can freeze to death?”

“That actually sounds pretty damn good from where I’m sitting.”

A shiver runs through her body. Her lips are starting to look a little blue. I’ve had enough.

“Come on. It’s time to get back to the cabin.”

“No.”

I glare at her for a moment. Then, seeing she is set on not budging, I grab her arm, yank her up, and fling her over my shoulder. She gives a little cry of protest, but she goes limp against my body just a few steps into the return journey.

I’m guessing she’s more relieved than she’s willing to admit.

The walk back to the cabin feels twice as long, but I never slow or waver. The guards hold open the door as I approach and enter without breaking stride.

Willow doesn’t say a word as I carry her upstairs and into my room. I bypass the bed and head straight for the bathroom. There, I set her down on the edge of the tub and start running warm bathwater.

Steam rises from the tub. Willow watches it like it’s a smoke signal. Like she’s trying to decipher a message.

“Remove your clothes,” I tell her.

She raises her eyes. “I’m not removing anything for you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You need to get warm.”

“Then leave so I can get warm without you.”

“You’re so stubborn you’d sit here and shiver to death before you’d get in a bath I ran for you.”

Her eyes narrow. “I should slap you.”

“That would be hard to do with no circulation in your fingers.”

She glances down at her hands. They’re white and stiff. “Still not stripping,” she says.

“Fine.”

I grab her sweater and pull it none too gently over her head. She struggles, but the effort is weak. She underestimated how much energy it takes to tromp through knee-high snow in Arctic temperatures.

I move to her jeans next.

“Leo… stop,” she says quietly.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Willow,” I warn her. “Which is it going to be?”

She tangles her fingers with mine, but they’re freezing cold and her attempts are half-hearted at best, so when she sees it’s an unwinnable fight, she sighs and lets her hands drop by her sides.

Satisfied, I stand her up and pull her pants and underwear down. She steps out of them without a fuss. Her eyes are swimming with unreadable emotion.

“Get in,” I instruct. “Or do you want me to do that for you, too?”

She shakes her head, leans over to check the temperature, and lets out a hiss that quickly cools into an audible sigh. She steps into it and sinks below the surface.

She steps in and slowly slips into the water up to her neck. A second later, a deep and content sigh rings from her body as her fingers thread the water.

“Better?” I ask, joining her at the edge of the tub.