Page 112 of Marrying the Savage

“I’m not bleeding.”

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. “Not currently.”

Heat rushes into my face.

I hate him. I hate him so much.

I reach for a towel, but he catches my wrist. “Sofia.”

“What?”

“This is not your concern.”

Something inside me snaps. Maybe because I have heard some version of that sentence all day. From guards. From Mikhail. From the house. From men who think marriage gives them rights but not explanations.

I step closer. “You made me your wife in front of half of the Bratva,” I say quietly. “You don’t get to bleed in front of me and then tell me it has nothing to do with me.”

His expression goes still.

The blood on his arm slides lower, following the curve of muscle toward his elbow. Without thinking too much, because thinking would ruin everything, I catch his wrist and lift his arm slightly.

Then I lean in.

His whole body stills.

I touch my mouth to the blood on his skin. Just once.

Light. Careful.

The taste is metallic and warm, salt and iron against my tongue. It should disgust me.

It does not.

Damir’s breath leaves him slowly. I look up at him through my lashes, my mouth still close to his arm. His eyes are dark now.

Very dark.

“Sofia,” he says.

This time, my name sounds like a warning to himself.

I lick the blood again, slower, following the red trail over hard skin, my tongue barely touching the edge of the wound but cleaning the smear beneath it. His hand opens and closes once at his side. A small sign. Almost nothing.

But from him, it feels like a confession.

“You’re making it worse,” he says.

“The wound?”

“No.”

My pulse jumps.

I look up. He’s watching my mouth.

The room grows hotter.

I should stop. The wound needs cleaning, bandaging, whatever else a responsible person would do in this extremely normal situation.