Satin Princess(26)
The blonde stumbles back, and it suddenly strikes me that she’s a lot bigger than Marina. Then I realize Marina’s hair isn’t even blonde right now. She dyed it so that she could transform into Freya.
But as true as those observations are, panic never really listens to reason, does it? I continue to kick and scream and fling pillows at the poor nurse. Because I won’t be sedated. I’m not going to lose control. Not the way I did back at Laurel Manor when I sat on that bench, incapacitated and helpless, fading off into a black haze and wondering if my baby would be lost to the jagged cruelty of a broken woman.
“Mathers!”
I hear his voice a split second before I see him. His face blocks out the blonde woman’s. And suddenly, he’s the only one I can see.
Anton’s woodsy scent teases my nostrils as he leans in a little closer. I realize a moment later that I’ve stopped fighting. And when I look down, I understand why. Anton has both my hands locked down against my sides. His grip is firm but not angry.
“Jessa, stop,” he says softly. “There’s no need to fight anymore. You’re safe.”
I shake my head and try to get out from under him. But he tightens his grip on me. His eyes bore into mine. He doesn’t shift his gaze when he barks out an order to the staff. “Out. All of you.”
“I need to check—”
“Out.”
Without another word of protest, everyone files out of the room. Only when the door clicks shut do I feel like I can breathe again.
Still, Anton doesn’t release me. He keeps his hands over mine, though his touch grows gentler.
“Take a deep breath,” he instructs me.
I do.
“Another one.”
“Anton—”
“Just do it.”
I do.
He nods. “Do you want some water?”
“No.”
“Drink some anyway,” he says firmly, taking the glass of water that the nurse abandoned earlier. He brings it to my lips.
Leave it to Anton Stepanov to succeed where everyone else failed. I take a few tentative sips, keeping my eyes on him the whole time.
There’s a faint shadow of stubble along his jawline. I want to nuzzle against it. His gray eyes are dark and tired. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. And yet despite that, he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
“Your t-shirt is wet,” he says with a frown. “Lift your arms.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Okay then. Go ahead.”
“Now?” I ask, balking at him. “In front of you?”
I can tell he’s trying really hard not to roll his eyes. “I’ve seen you naked before, Jessa. In case you forgot.”
I sigh. I’m too weary for his usual games right now. “Fine. Help me.”
I expect a smug smile or a sly comment. But he gives me neither. Instead, he gently peels my shirt off. Only once it’s off am I aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. My breasts hang free, and Anton’s eyes find them instantly.
I feel the urge to cross my arms over my chest, but I can’t deny that a part of me likes the fact that he’s watching me. That he’s seeing me in a way no one else ever has.
He scoops the fresh shirt up from where the nurse dropped it and returns to my bedside. As he moves closer to me, my skin heats up. He takes his time dressing me. His fingers graze my side and electricity jolts through me.
The same electricity that got me into this mess in the first place.
When I’m dressed, I shrink back in bed and pull the covers tight around me, hoping that it’ll act as a barrier between us, even while knowing that nothing has that kind of power.
“How did I get here?” I mumble.
“I brought you,” he says. “What do you remember?”
“Marina is alive.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting to see on his face, but it certainly was not resignation. “I know.”
“Where is she now?”
“She ran before I arrived.”
I can feel my breathing start to get erratic. “So you don’t… you don’t know where she is?”
His hand lands on mine, enveloping it. Any other person and I would have flinched away from their grasp. But with Anton, everything feels so natural.
“She’s not going to touch you again,” he insists.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re under my protection,” he says. “And to get through you, she’ll have to get through me first.”
I want to ask him why he cares. Why he would bother. But I decide on a simpler question. Facts first, feelings later—or possibly never, I haven’t quite decided.
“How did you find me?”
“Chris.”
My eyes go wide. “Chris told you where I was?”
He pulls out Chris’s phone and holds it up for me. “No. You did, actually.”
“What did you do to him?” I demand instantly.
Anton looks annoyed as he tucks Chris’s phone away. “Why would I do anything to him?”
“So he’s not hurt or, like, lying in a ditch somewhere?”
“If he is, it isn’t because of anything I did.” Anton looks at me calmly, but I can tell he’s angry. His gray eyes can’t quite hide that level of intensity.