Then I let his hand go and drop my gaze to his torso. There’s a bruise blooming across his left side, just below the ribcage. It’s fresh and livid, red fading to purple at the edges, ugly.
I sink slowly onto my knees. My pulse is borderline painful where it throbs in my throat. Then, with my hands on his torso, I put my mouth on it. Gently. My lips against the hot, swollen skin, holding there, breathing against him. His stomach contracts under my cheek and his hand comes up to hover near the back of my head without quite touching, as if he’s afraid that the weight of his palm might break something fragile.
I straighten up and look at him. “I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I tell him.
Shockingly, it both feels and sounds true. I’m not afraid of Kir Lazarev. I haven’t been for a while now,
