"Will you let me look at your arm?" I asked Sevastyan for the tenth time. I figured I'd keep asking until he responded.
His clothes had dried on him, but he refused to move from the yacht's steering wheel. For hours, the engines had hummed unceasingly as he'd guided us upriver, our end destination unknown.
He sat on the captain's bench in the luxurious c**kpit, his body rigid with strain. The muted instrument lights illuminated his weary face, those compelling features, his fathomless gaze.
This was the man who'd lunged in front of bullets for me. Who'd killed to protect me. On our first night together, he'd told me, "I will eliminate any threat to you, pitilessly."
He had.
The glow from the dash highlighted streaks of dried blood across his cheek, neck, and the ripped material around
