Chapter 25 "'Fun'?" I croak, hoarse and flustered. "What 'fun'? There will be no fun here. Let me make this clear." I jab my finger between us, then sweep it to encompass the rest of the room. "This is strictly a no-fun zone." He tilts his head, studying me. "Why are you blushing?" "I'm not blushing; I'm pissed off." I pivot away from him, but my voice betrays me with its breathiness. "Is it not enough that you abducted me? You have to hold me hostage in my own apartment, too?" My throat feels raw. Meanwhile, Kovan's voice remains the same calm, velvet baritone that it's always been. "No one's holding you hostage. You can leave anytime." I pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers. "I need to sleep, Kovan. I just worked a twenty-eight-hour shift and I am like the Walking fucking Dead." "So sleep." He shrugs. "No one's stopping you." "You are, actually. By being here." "There's no bed in the second room," he points out. "And Luka needs his space." "Yeah? Well, what about my space? You know-the person who owns this apartment?" "Why would you want space from your beloved boyfriend?" Laughter dances just underneath the lacquered surface of his tone. I almost don't believe my ears. The bastard is enjoying this. And yes, maybe there's a small-a very small-part of me that's enjoying it, too. Which is exactly why I need him out of my room, pronto. "The armchair is big enough for both your body and ego." I yank the pile of clothes off it and dump them on the floor. "You're welcome to sleep here." "That's an armchair?" His eyes go wide with mock surprise. "I thought it was a laundry basket." "Very funny. Truly, I'm in stitches. Tears in my ears. You're a comedic talent without peer." He winks. "Thanks for noticing. We should establish our sides of the bed, don't you think?" "Great idea." I point to the bed. "That's my side." Then I point to the armchair. "That's yours. Sleep well, nighty-night!" With that point made as firmly as I can make it, I turn around and busy myself making the bed, smoothing sheets that don't need smoothing, fluffing pillows that don't need fluffing. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? When do I ever make my bed? I roll out of it; I roll into it. Lather, rinse, repeat. The most I do is change the sheets every other week. I know, I know-I'm disgusting. A thought occurs to me. I turn back around to face Kovan. "For purposes of Ms. Trunchbull, however⁠-" "Who?" "-we will say that my side is the right," I finish. "Just in case she ever asks, weird as that would be. And just so we're clear, these conversations are as familiar as we're ever getting in this department. Copy that?" His smile is ghost-light but devastating. "Are you asking me or telling me?" For a moment, I'm not sure myself. "Telling you," I decide. "Definitely telling you." "Very well." He inclines his head. "I'll respect your wishes, Dr. Fairfax. No bed talk-unless you invite me under the covers yourself." "Which will never, ever happen." "I should hope not. After the show you've put on tonight, you'd have to beg me to climb in." His eyes are sparkling with taunting laughter. "On hands and knees, probably. And even then... Well, no promises." "You seem to be under the extremely mistaken impression that I want you." I lift my chin. "That couldn't be further from the truth." "I see. And you keep staring at my forearms because you're trying to figure out how to get arms like these yourself...?" He flexes, and my mouth goes dry. I turn my back on him so he can't see the heat flooding my cheeks. "You certainly have an overactive imagination, Mr. Krayev. Not to mention an unhealthy sense of sexual entitlement. I hate to burst your bubble, but not every woman who sees you wants to get in your pants." "That hasn't been my experience." My eyes snap to his involuntarily. His tone is playful, but his eyes hold sin and many dark promises I shouldn't want him to keep. If we lived in Jane Austen's time, Kovan Krayev would be called a rake, and he'd be more than deserving of the title. All on its own, an imaginary slideshow starts playing in my head. Kovan escorting a leggy, high-society brunette down a red carpet. Kovan pouring champagne for a buxom blonde on the prow of a yacht. Kovan, shirtless, pants pooled around his ankles, as a freckled redhead without a stitch of clothing sinks to her knees before him and⁠- I shudder until the images go away. So what? Who cares if he's had countless women? So many he probably can't remember their names? It's not my problem, is it? But it is. Because it should turn me off, but it doesn't. I try to talk myself into despising it, into being repulsed by him and all the things I can all too easily picture him doing. I mean, who wants second-hand or third-hand or thousandth-hand goods? Who wants something that's already been pawed over by every trust fund baby and Victoria's Secret supermodel from here to Paris Fashion Week and back again? I do, apparently. I want it a lot. Like he can see into my filthy thoughts, Kovan grins. "Yeah, yeah. You're Casanova and we're all just lucky to be in sniffing range of your pheromones." I roll my eyes. "Whatever helps you sleep at night." He hasn't moved. Still standing across from my bed, dwarfing the room, reminding me with every breath how much bigger he is. If he decides to ignore me and take the empty side, I'm not sure what exactly I can do about it. And with the current state of my feverish body, the way even my scrubs sliding over my skin feels naughty, I'd really rather not touch him at all. "Do you usually sleep fully clothed?" he asks. I blink at him. "Huh?" He glances at my scrubs. "Your outfit. It doesn't seem comfortable. Nor particularly sanitary." "Don't worry about what I sleep in," I snap back. "Just get comfortable in that armchair and be quiet. I'm exhausted, I've had a terrible day, and I don't need someone talking my ear off. Especially not someone like you." "Whatever you want, honey." The endearment sounds decadently wrong on his lips, even when it's layered thick with that much sarcasm. "Bedtime it is." Without warning, he pulls his shirt over his head, and I find myself staring at the most defined abs I've ever seen. Dear God, give me strength. Those muscles have my heart racing so fast it might implode. "What the hell are you doing?" "Going to sleep. Just like you told me to." He tosses the shirt onto the back of the armchair. "Out of respect for your boundaries, I won't sleep naked like usual." That should sound good, but my heart slows to a wan, disappointed drumbeat instead. "How generous of you." He turns his back and pulls off his pants. I get a perfect, unrequested view of his ass clad in black boxer briefs. Charity always babbles about how much she appreciates a good, firm ass on a man. I never saw the appeal. I ought to text her and tell her I've now seen the error of my ways. The derrièrror, if you will. God, I might be very dangerously exhausted if I'm making bad puns in French. I ought to go to bed now, before my mental capacity declines any further. "Stop checking me out and go to sleep, Doctor." Spinning furiously and shamefully in place, I snatch a fresh towel and flee to the bathroom. Luka is already fast asleep on the sofa bed. He looks younger when he sleeps, when those gray eyes aren't soaking up all the nooks and crannies of a world that showed its ugly side to him far too soon. I lock myself in the bathroom and try to calm down with a cold shower. Despite my exhaustion, I don't feel sleepy. No prizes for guessing why. No prizes for guessing why I stay in the shower until my fingers prune, either. But no matter how long I stay, whether the water is hot or cold or on or off, nothing dispels the stubborn heat surging just underneath the surface of my skin. Every droplet is a caress I don't want and never asked for. I pause when I finally concede defeat and step out of the shower. The question is... Now, what? Usually, I sleep in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. But with my uninvited roommate, I opt instead for the navy silk pajama set Charity bought me last year. Shorts and a matching camisole with a daring V-neck. It's not so sexy I'll feel exposed, but just sexy enough to give Kovan a taste of his own medicine. I'll see your abs and raise you cleavage and thigh, you smug S.O.B. After brushing my hair with a comb I haven't touched in weeks, I return to the bedroom. Kovan is sprawled on the armchair, legs propped against the windowsill, abs on less-than-innocent display. But I recognize them for the weapons they are. I avoid looking at him as I walk to my bed, grateful he took the chair. But I'm also fighting guilt over my petty victory. We're both adults. What would be the harm in sharing a bed? Nothing has to happen. Even as I think that, though, the idea of sharing a bed with Kovan and having nothing happen fills me with bitter disappointment. I sink into bed and pull the sheets to my chest. "Should I turn off the light?" rumbles Kovan without opening his eyes. Despite my better judgment, I look at him. He makes my ratty armchair look good, but he's too big for it. I have no idea how he'll manage a full night. Not comfortably, that's for sure. Not your problem, girl. Ignore him. Forget him. Stay away from him. Except guilt keeps rising in my chest. He must take my silence for a yes, because with the flip of a switch, darkness engulfs us. But the curtains are still open and the street lights shine into the room. Kovan's body glows ethereal white. His face is steeped in shadows, though. I make myself stare at the ceiling instead of him. I wonder if he can hear my heart galloping away. "What happened today?" His voice in the darkness takes on new layers and textures. It's quieter, less threatening, but all the more dangerous for how trustworthy it seems. "Just a bad day," I whisper up toward the nothingness above me. "I had to give a bad diagnosis. Then faulty equipment nearly screwed me over in surgery. And I ran into Jeremy in the hallway. I didn't do myself any favors with how I talked to him." I sigh, but it barely helps my strained lungs. "He's gonna be hunting for reasons to fire me now." "He's not a problem you'll deal with much longer." I feel my resolve softening as I roll over onto my side to face Kovan. "Do you really think you can get him off the board?" "I can do that and more." I don't bother asking what the "and more" might possibly mean. It will be enough to know that Jeremy's not calling the shots at St. Raphael's anymore. If he's also wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the Bay... Well, as long as I don't know about it, that's not my problem. "He was one of my father's residents, you know," I say. "He studied under Dad for years before becoming an attending himself. There was a time I actually liked the asshole, if you can believe that." "People change when money gets involved. The more money, the faster the change." "Is it worth selling your soul for?" Kovan shrugs. "It's easier if you don't believe in souls. Or any of the baggage they come with: afterlives, heavens, hells. If the only world you believe in is this one, it's easier to live without fear of consequences." I prop myself up on an elbow. "Deep. Who said that? Rumi? Gandhi?" "Vitalii Krayev." Kovan chuckles, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "My brother." "Oh. Right." I give up all remaining pretense and sit up, letting the sheet fall from my chest. "He believed in the stars." Kovan snorts. "The stars. The fucking stars. Jesus." "What's funny about that?" "It's ridiculous, that's what's funny. My big brother, pakhan of the Krayev Bratva, shrewd businessman, was into fucking astrology. He poured over star charts. Knew everything about every sign. Believed our lives, our futures, were written in the heavens above. Fool. Absolute damn fool." "I'm guessing you don't agree?" "I don't believe in anything but myself." His voice turns hard. "Nothing's written in the stars. Nothing's written anywhere unless you write it down your damn self. Life is what you make of it. Nothing more. Nothing less." His words echo in my chest, filling me with heat and shivers alike. "You must think I'm a cold, unfeeling beast," he offers when I say nothing. "Actually, I agree with everything you just said." Kovan raises his eyebrows. "A fellow pragmatist. We're a rare breed." "Getting rarer every day." My gaze goes to the constellation tattoo on his forearm. I haven't noticed it before, but now, with the moonlight catching it, it seems too delicate and beautiful to be on a man like him. "But sometimes, I wish I did believe in something. Even something as stupid as a star." I'm not sure why I say it. Maybe because Kovan might understand. "Because believing means you'd see him again," he says softly, understanding effortlessly. "Your father." I bite my lip and nod. "I think that's why his death hit me so hard. It wasn't just the suddenness; it was the finality, too. It was knowing I'd never see him again. He was gone and I was alone. And nothing would ever change that." "You have a mother. And a brother." "And I love them both," I agree. "But my father was my mentor, my hero, my best friend, my protector. He's why I became a doctor. The irony of becoming a doctor just to watch my father die..." I shake my head, unwilling to go where the end of that sentence would take me. "You think you could have saved him?" "I know I could have. But it wouldn't have mattered. He refused the liver transplant he was offered." "He turned down a liver?" "Can you believe that?" All that familiar old rage surfaces, as fresh as ever, as though it was never gone, just lying in wait, waiting to find a sliver of room to rear its head again. "Some people wait years for the right organ. Not everyone even makes the transplant list. And there was my dad, half dead, but still turning away a perfectly good organ because of some notion about not fulfilling his oath as a doctor." I'm not sure if it's the moonlight slanting into the room or just a trick of the light, but Kovan looks troubled. "He believed that?" "It's what he said, at least, when he was still talking. I don't know. He was a good man and a great doctor. He took every loss personally. I think it wore him down toward the end and he just gave up on us." Kovan studies me in silence. "You're angry at him." I hide my face behind my hair for a moment. I feel too seen, too visible. "I love him. I miss him terribly. But yes, I hate him for leaving me. For not fighting to stay alive. For not accepting that chance at a few more years with all of us who loved him." "It's strange, isn't it?" Kovan murmurs. "How we find ways to blame them for their own deaths." "Not that strange, no. Being angry is easier than being sad." Something flickers in his eyes. Even in darkness, they glow faint green. It terrifies me, but not for the reasons I once would've thought. "How's the armchair?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Lumpy and small." I pull back the covers, my heartbeat frantic and confused. "Just get in here. I can share. As long as you stick to your side." "Would it help if we built a pillow wall?" he teases, getting to his feet. "To make sure I keep my hands to myself?" "I suppose I'll just have to trust you." With a smile that makes my toes curl, he climbs in beside me. When was the last time I shared a bed with a man? A decade? More? "Much better." Kovan settles back, fingers interwoven behind his head. "I knew you were dying to sleep with me." I scoff, hiding my amusement. "You wish. Goodnight, Kovan." "Goodnight, Vesper." I spend thirty minutes trying to fall asleep, hyperaware of his heat beside me. It takes me a while to figure out exactly why. I'm waiting for him to cross my boundaries. I'm waiting for him to touch me. I fall asleep waiting.