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It seems Pyotr’s idea for me to marry Mel has only escalated Vinny’s determination to reclaim her. Now, the erratic Irishman is intent on killing one or both of us. My brother Akim’s warning rings in my mind. Nothing in the laws stops Vinny from marrying my widow.
Still, I don’t regret marrying Mel.
Even if it somehow managed to make our situation worse.
Because my desire to protect her is far stronger than I ever thought possible. And as masochistic as the thought is, I like knowing we’re tied together—even if it’s temporary.
Ironic that I can be so close to having what I want, and yet I’m so far from actually having the woman I love. The observation tastes of bitterness, and I fight to squash the ugly emotion.
It’s not in my power to change the fact that Mel and I weren’t meant for each other—or at least that I’m not a man she can trust. She has demonstrated time and again that she doesn’t feel for me the way I do for her. And if I want to be the kind of man I can respect, I need to accept that.
Swallowing down that painful pill, I force my eyes away from the sweet scene before me. And I leave Mel and her daughter in peace as I pad into my bedroom to get cleaned up.
My shirt’s bloody enough that I wait until I’m in the bathroom to strip it over my head. And when my eyes land on the bandage covering the cut along my ribs, I quickly come to the realization that I’m still bleeding quite a bit.
Carefully, I peel the adhesive free of my skin, and a fresh stream of blood trickles down my side. The cut is deeper than I’d initially assumed—or I exacerbated it by pushing my body to its limits.
Whatever the case, I’ll need stitches.
But first, I need to clean it up.
Sighing heavily, I grab a cloth from beneath my sink and press it against the wound, then I turn on the shower. Carefully, I scrub the grime from my body and clean my cut, taking my time and focusing on my task to avoid thinking about Mel and the entirely too adorable family she and Gabby make.
When I step back out of the shower, I quickly towel dry and pull on a pair of joggers. I pick a pair that hangs low on my hips so I’ll have plenty of room to work while I stitch myself up. After soaking up the fresh blood as best I can and dabbing the wound with antiseptic, I toss a towel on the bed to minimize the mess. Then, I lean back so I have a better angle to work with.
The needle I sanitized slides in and out of my flesh with little resistance, the thread tugging against my skin and making my teeth clench as I tie the ends into a snug surgeon’s knot. My head throbs from the pain combined with the cracking force with which I lock my jaw.
A soft rap on the door interrupts me as I start on my third suture, but my lips are pressed into a thin line, so I can’t make a sound.
“Gleb?” Mel asks, cracking the door tentatively when I don’t answer. “Dinner’s ready…” The door swings a little wider, revealing a fraction of Mel’s heart-shaped face as she tries to assess the situation without intruding on my privacy.
Horror dawns across her features when her eyes land on my cut, and my hand jerks in response, tugging painfully on the open wound.
“You’re hurt!” she gasps. All thoughts of boundaries fly out the window as she lets the door swing wide and sweeps into the room. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”
The way her voice jumps an octave alerts me to her anxiety, and despite my pounding skull, I attempt to put her at ease.
“Am I really that bad at stitching myself up?” I tease, pausing because it’s taking all my concentration to keep my hand steady.
“No, no. Just…”
She kneels before me, and despite the pulse in my ribs and the hammering in my head, I can’t stop my thoughts from the less-than-appropriate direction they turn.
Her cool fingers brush across my abs as she studies the wound with an unusual sense of objective calm.
“It’s a lot of blood. But it’s not as deep as I thought. Do you want me to do it?”
“You know how?” I ask, the surprise in my tone apparent.
“Yeah.” Mel rises swiftly and heads into my bathroom to thoroughly scrub her hands.
She comes out a minute later and takes the needle from my bloody fingers, seeming perfectly at ease with the mess. She kneels before me once again, her brows pressing into a soft frown as she maneuvers the needle with expert precision.
“Where did you learn to do stitches like that?” I ask, watching her with fascination. She’s as steady and meticulous as a professional.
Mel pauses just long enough for her eyes to flick up to mine. Then, she refocuses on the task at hand. “My mom. After a long day working on the docks, my dad usually stopped in at the local bar for a drink—or ten. When he gets drunk, he tends to get into fights. At least, he did when I was younger. And after my mom died, it fell to me to put him back together.”
It’s the first time Mel’s given me any details about her life in Hawaii before she moved to Colorado to live with her uncle. My pulse quickens as I consider why she might be opening up to me. At the same time, it sets a burning curiosity alight in my chest—the same kind that ignited in me when I first hoisted her out of the back of Mikhail’s transport truck.
