Page 107 of Anton

“You bribed my guards with cookies?”

Her mouth spreads into a captivating smile. “They’re great cookies.”

I give up.

The gate opens, and we roll down the narrow street until we reach my house. I get out before she can come around to help me because I can already feel her thinking about it. She follows me inside, the front door shutting behind us, and the house feels different with her in it. Less empty.

“I want to check your wound before I go.”

Yes, her leaving is a great idea. Though the thought of her gone makes my fingers curl.

“Sit,” she says when we reach the kitchen.

I look over at her. “You’re starting to enjoy giving orders.”

She grins as I lower myself onto a chair beside the island, unable to care about anything except the fact that she’s here, right beside me again after all this fucking time. My thoughts war with each other, torn between wanting her close and knowing she needs to stay far away from me.

She stands in front of me while I force myself to remain seated, even though I want to pull her between my knees, wrap an arm around her waist, and refuse to let her go. Instead, I allow her to peel back the edge of the bandage and examine the wound, a crease forming between her brows as she worries over me with a tenderness I don’t deserve.

“You really need a doctor. Please. It could get infected.”

Hearing her plead with me makes it difficult to deny her anything.

“I have antibiotics here. I’ll take them for a few days. The wound is clean enough.”

“Clean enough isn’t a medical standard.”

“It is now.” The corner of my mouth lifts.

She scoffs. “Your standards are terrible.”

“They’ve kept me alive.”

“Barely.”

Concern floods her eyes, and I cup her face, dragging my thumb across her lips as I watch the path it takes. “Vso normalno. Ya ne umru.”

“What did that mean?” She delves into my palm, her eyes glassing over.

My mouth deepens into a barely there smile as the pressure around my heart tightens until every breath hurts.

I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Whenever she’s close, the weight in my chest becomes impossible to ignore, leaving me no choice but to face whatever she’s awakened in me, even when it feels unbearable.

“That I won’t die. Don’t worry about me. I don’t deserve it.”

If you knew what I’m supposed to do to you—what I can’t do—you’d hate me.

Maybe I should tell her. It would fix the situation.

She places a hand on my arm, her lashes flickering. “You deserve everything, Anton. You just won’t let yourself have it.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

After a few seconds, she sighs. “Well…” Her touch drops to my wrist. “I guess I’ll go now.”

No.

The word almost comes out of my mouth.