Page 62 of I’m The Worst

“Brat.” He pulls off one boot, letting it hit the floor.

I frown. “That doesn’t sound like it means brat.”

“You don’t speak Russian.” He drops the other boot. “Go shower.” He doesn’t even look at me.

I stare at him for a second, my hands curling into fists, before I turn and storm into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. The crazy bastard almost got us killed—and he’s calling me a brat.

When I’m done showering, I step out and wrap a towel around myself. I glance at my reflection⁠—

My hair hangs damp and limp. My skin is pale beneath the red. My eyes are rimmed in exhaustion. My lips are cracked and raw. Bruises still ring my throat, wrist, and ankles, but they are fading. The purple has given way to yellow and green. I press my fingers against them and swallow hard.

“There’s a shirt on the bed.” His deep voice makes me jump. My gaze snaps to the door where he’s standing. His eyes are locked on mine, that same unreadable expression on his face. I don’t know how long he’s been watching me. I open my mouth to say something, but stop myself, and push through the doorway.

He brushes past me into the bathroom.

I’m tempted to leave the shirt he laid out. Just wrap the towel around my body, slip under the blankets, and ignore him. But I know I’ll just be cold. Dropping the towel, I pull his t-shirt over my head. Then I step into the fresh pair of underwear he’d left out with the clothes.

I climb onto the bed, curling into a tight ball under the covers. When I hear the bathroom door open, I don’t look. I just pull the blankets higher and pretend to be asleep.

His footsteps move around the room. Drawers open and close. Then the mattress dips hard beside me.

My eyes snap open.

Wolff is lying on his back, arms tucked under his head, staring at the ceiling. Shirtless. Sweatpants low on his hips, the sharp cut of his V-line disappearing beneath the waistband. The soft lamplight catches on the hard ridges of his abs. Scars and tattoos cover his chest and shoulders—dark inked designs wrapping his right arm. The Sovereign brand is bold above his heart. His body is massive—legs hanging off the end of the bed, taking up most of the space.

He doesn’t say a word. His jaw is tight, like usual, the muscle ticking steadily. Heat rolls off him in waves, mixing with the faint scent of cheap soap and something earthy.

I can’t stop staring. The small scar slicing through his eyebrow. The way his abs tense with every slow breath. That deep, tempting V leading down to where the sweatpants barely cling to his hips.

My fingers twitch under the blanket. I want to reach out. Trace every ridge. Feel the heat of his skin under my fingertips.

I force myself to turn over, pulling the covers tight over my shoulder.

A moment later, the lamp clicks off, bathing the room in darkness.

The memories creep in the second the light dies.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push them back, but they come anyway—rough hands, laughter, the feeling of being used until I went numb. My throat tightens. Breathing turns shallow. A chill sinks into my bones.

I shiver hard and start to sit up.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cold. I was going to⁠—”

The bed creaks. A heavy arm snakes around my waist and yanks me backward. My back collides with his solid chest, burning hot. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. He’s so big. So warm. A wall of heat wraps around me as his arm tightens, pulling me flush against him.

“I… I thought you hated being touched.”

“I do.” His voice is almost angry. “Now stop talking and go the fuck to sleep.”

I want to ask why he’s doing this. Why now. But I stay quiet, trying to relax into the heat of his body.

At first, we’re both rigid—his arm stiff around my waist, every muscle locked. But slowly, minute by minute, his hold loosens just a fraction. His breathing evens out. I press back against his chest, sinking deeper into the warmth. His grip tightens again on my waist.

It feels good. It’s been so long since anyone touched me without hurting me. Without making me want to crawl out of my own skin. An ache starts low between my legs. I try to ignore it. Try to focus on the steady beat of his heart against my back.

It doesn’t work.