Chapter 13

POV ALEJANDRA ZAVALA

"It had been two days feeling like I had been run over by a truck. It felt like all I could do was sleep. The only saving grace was having an tireless Ilya taking care of me in every possible way, even carrying me to the bathroom when I needed to pee because my legs were too shaky to make it to the small en-suite in the cabin.

On the third day, I woke up feeling better, but I was still forced to stay in bed by a grumbling bear who looked more like a guardian.

The problem was that all his care and kindness were starting to get to me. Just like I had told him, it had been a long time since someone had been that nice to me, and I didn’t even know how to thank him.

I didn’t know how to understand the way my heart was starting to beat erratically whenever I saw him.

It was probably the forced proximity, the fact that we were alone in an isolated cabin, that I was so fragile, and that he had that protective streak. Over time, it would pass. He wasn’t going to keep me around for long. According to what he had said, we would be heading to the United States as soon as possible, and then I could move on with my life—maybe with a new identity, with new prospects.

Still, we would have a few more days together. What would I do with my heart if it ended up being too late?

I had taken a nap in the afternoon, feeling useless for doing nothing, and woke up feeling stronger. It was still quite cold, but I no longer trembled as if I were having a hypothermic attack.

I measured my own temperature, and it was already normal, around thirty-seven. I would continue taking the fever reducer and taking care of myself, but the worst was over.

My body was also much less weak. So much so that I managed to get out of bed—wrapped in the blanket—and went downstairs, intending to find my ‘roommate.’

We still hadn’t had a chance to talk about my crazy outburst, and I felt obligated to apologize.

He was sitting in the living room, drinking a beer on the leather sofa, sprawled out, one arm over the backrest and his legs wide open. Like the Viking he truly resembled.

I didn’t want to disturb him, but he just looked thoughtful. Not even the television was on, which encouraged me to approach and sit at the other end of the sofa.

He glanced at me sideways, always looking suspicious and displeased, even when he was at his gentlest.

"Feeling better?" he asked in his baritone voice, which suited his appearance perfectly.

I had never thought a man like Ilya would catch my attention. I used to dream of prince charmings with perfect lips, dimpled chins, blue eyes, and straight hair falling over their foreheads. But he was a rough man, with massive hands and arms that looked like tree trunks. A mafioso…

If my mother saw me at that moment… A devout Catholic like she was…

But she would love him just for saving me and protecting me after everything I had been through.

She just wouldn’t like the thoughts he was starting to stir in me.

"Much better, thank you."

He nodded and took a swig of his beer, returning his gaze to the random spot he had been staring at earlier.

"I need to apologize. I was a little… out of my mind when I tried to escape."

"Escape?" he spat out the word. "You're not a prisoner here."

"No, I know. It was just a figure of speech. But I’m grateful, believe me. Like I said, you’re the only decent man I’ve met so far."

"Your standards must not be very high," he grumbled, and I fell silent because he didn’t seem in the mood for a conversation.

Still, he was the one who continued. He finally looked at me and asked, in his thickly accented Spanish,

"Was your father not decent to you?"

I hadn’t expected the question to be so direct. I hadn’t expected to have to pull that answer from the deepest part of me, where it still hurt the most.

"I never knew him. He was in the Cartel. Raped my mother, and I was born. My brother’s father was the one who raised me, but he hated me because I wasn’t his daughter. He was still married to my mother and insisted she had provoked it, that she had brought it on herself. He blamed her, even though she was the victim."

Ilya’s jaw tightened, as if he were angry.

"I’m sorry," was all he said. "And your brother? I remember you said he was the one who turned you in…"

I took a deep breath and nodded."

"I don’t have many memories of that day because it was so long ago, and I think I was a little traumatized. But I do remember very well someone leading the men to my room and saying, 'It’s her.' It could only have been him. I was still half-asleep, half-dizzy, but there was no one else home with us."

Once again, Ilya brought the bottle to his mouth and averted his eyes from mine, staring into nothing. His jaw was tense. His shoulders, too. His brow furrowed.

I shifted on the couch, adjusting myself and pulling my legs up onto the seat in a yoga position, trying to get more comfortable because I knew the topic was difficult. I had never opened up about all of it to anyone before—this would be the first time.

"For a long time, I hated him."

"And you don’t hate him anymore?"

"I don’t know. But sometimes, I kind of understand him. He did it to survive. It was either him or me."

"You two didn’t get along?"

"Oh, no. We did." I couldn’t hold back a small smile as I changed positions, wrapping my arms around my bent knees.

I rested my head on them, staring into the distance with a dreamy look. "Javi was my hero. We were always very close because he took care of me. He’s ten years older."

"Didn’t take care of you that well, apparently," he muttered with a growl. "I have a sister twenty years younger than me, Alejandra. I’d give her the whole world. I’d die to protect her. If your brother did what he did, he doesn’t deserve forgiveness."

I shrugged.

"One day, maybe, I’ll have the chance to talk to him and understand."

Ilya set the beer bottle down on the small table beside the couch. He did it forcefully, making the glass clink loudly, startling me.

"Understand what? That he wasn’t man enough to protect his sister? That disgusts me. He’s not a real man." He stood up, outraged.

I did the same, moving behind him, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Surprised by the unexpected touch, Ilya turned sharply, in his expansive way, and I took a step back, afraid he might hit me unintentionally. My foot slipped on the plush rug in the living room, making me lose my balance.

His excellent reflexes made him stretch out his arm and wrap it around my waist to steady me. The pull he gave, bringing me against his chest, lifted my feet off the ground and caused real havoc, making me tremble.

And it wasn’t from the fever anymore.

I let out the breath that had been trapped in my lungs, releasing it in a heavy sigh. My mouth and Ilya’s were so close that I could feel the stubble of his beard on my chin.

His warm breath welcomed me like a kiss.

And speaking of kisses…

What would it cost me to tilt my head just a little and go after what I wanted so badly? Just a taste, nothing elaborate—especially since I had never truly been kissed before. I wouldn’t have anything to compare it to…

Not that I believed a man like him, with his intensity and strength, could possibly disappoint me.

And what did I even know about seduction? He was far more experienced than I was—not just because of the considerable age difference between us, but also because I had been deprived of an entire life.

Yet, for a few moments, I swore I wouldn’t need to take the first step. The way Ilya was looking at me, with narrowed eyes so intense they almost unraveled me, made me certain he was about to kiss me.

Neither of us said anything. The topic of my brother was lost in the mist that had formed around us.

I went deaf to everything else and could only hear the buzzing in my ears. Whispers of voices telling me this was wrong. It was as if the whole world had stopped. Not even the crackling fire or the distant sounds of the television made sense anymore.

And he hadn’t even kissed me yet.

"Moi Rys..." he whispered in his native language, staring straight into my eyes.

I wanted to ask, once again, what it meant, but I didn’t want to break the moment. I had the feeling that if I said anything, Ilya would snap out of whatever spell had captured him, and then nothing would happen.

I felt his hand spread out over the curve of my waist, and his thumb brushed a slow circle against a spot on my back. I closed my eyes, sighing and waiting…

But nothing came.

With one of his usual grumbles, he let me go slowly, as if he regretted it.

Then he just stepped back, lowering his head, turning away from me, escaping—but not without leaving his scent on my skin and the ghost of his touch lingering like an imprint.

Better this way. It wasn’t right. Not in the middle of this situation.

Maybe someday."