Satin Princess(34)

“Can I get you anything?”

“You hired a full-time staff to take care of my every need, Anton,” she points out with a choked laugh. “They’ve been hovering over me all day. It’s making me claustrophobic.”

“Even with this view?”

“I’m not used to being waited on hand and foot. It’s weird.”

“It’s just a matter of getting used to it.”

She frowns. “What if I don’t want to get used to it? I like taking care of myself.”

“And you can—when you’re back on your feet.”

That familiar fire glows in her eyes. “I am back on my feet! Or at least I could be. Except that you’ve instructed the staff, including the doctors, that I’m not to be allowed off the damn bed.”

“I won’t bother to apologize. Especially for something I don’t feel the least bit sorry for. It’s important that you recover properly.”

She sighs. “I’m going crazy in this room all day. Cabin fever, like, bad. I want to get out and do something.”

“And we will,” I promise her. “Once you’ve fully recovered.”

She looks impatient, of course, but there’s something else to her expression, too. She looks touched. As if she’s not expecting care. As if she doesn’t know what the meaning of the word even is. As if no one in her entire life has shown her kindness when she needed it.

Or perhaps most of all, as if she never thought it could come from a man like me.

To be honest, I share the same sentiment. I didn’t know I was capable. Seems we’re both learning a lot about ourselves.

I reach out to push back the strand of hair that has fallen across her face. I let it linger so the backs of my fingers can brush against her cheek, soft like satin.

Jessa sighs and turns her face into my hand. She closes her eyes and I let myself stare at her. I wonder if she even realizes how strange and shocking this moment is.

I didn’t think I was the kind of man who would stand by a woman’s bedside just to watch her sleep.

I didn’t think I was the kind of man who would be this fiercely protective, this unapologetically possessive over any woman.

But ultimately, this isn’t about me at all.

It’s about her.

And for this woman, I would do fucking anything.

Slowly, Jessa opens her eyes and looks up at me. Emotions are flickering across her face so quickly I can’t get a read on them. Then she leans towards me, her eyelashes fluttering anxiously.

Her lips brush up against mine, soft and tentative. The kiss is a test of her bravery as much as a test of my reaction.

I let the kiss settle, desperate to deepen it. But instead, I count to five and then I pull back. Her expression twists into confusion and then flushes with shame, with rejection.

I take her hand and twine her fingers with my own. “It may not feel like it, Jessa, but you’re still weak. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize you or the baby.”

She doesn’t seem appeased by that. “It was just a kiss.”

“Once I start kissing you, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stop,” I tell her with a half-smile. “I am only human, after all.”

She lets that sink in for a moment. Then a shy smile splits her face. “Are you sure about that?”

I tuck her against me and marvel once again at how naturally she fits there.

It was never like this with Marina. I never touched her for the sheer sake of it, the sheer bliss of touching her. I never stroked her cheek or pushed back her hair. I never kissed her on the forehead. I never held her in my arms and appreciated the way she felt against me.

It’s all different for me. Jessa is different for me.

I see now how much I needed it.

“What was it like growing up, knowing you were going to be the don one day?” she asks suddenly.

I look down at her, marveling at the proud arch of her nose, the swoop of her cheekbones. My answer is simple: “Hell.”

Jessa blinks in surprise. “Is that an exaggeration?”

“Depends on the day.” I shrug.

She raises her eyebrows thoughtfully. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“For what you went through,” she explains. “It can’t have been easy to carry the burden of your father’s legacy. As if growing up isn’t hard enough.”

“You say that like childhood is a battle that needs to be fought.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks. “I felt like it was sometimes.”

“In what way?”

“In every way. The constant self-doubt and questioning. The way you change your clothes three times a day because you’re scared the dress you’re wearing is too worn, too old, too ugly. Sometimes when you’re a kid, everything feels like it’s the end of the world.”

I raise my eyebrows. “We had very different childhoods.”

She sighs. “I guess so. But there are some things that are relatable no matter where you come from or how you were raised.”

“Hm. I suppose that’s possible.”

“You’re lucky you had a brother to wade through life with,” she adds.

“I never really thought about it.”