Chapter 3

I slap the towel against his stomach and turn away, not understanding what unsettles me more: his gaze, his words, or his bare chest, which has become almost a man's.

"Hold this. I'll look for Panthenol in the first-aid kit. We need to treat the burn before you blister. But please, don't sneak up on me like that again. I don't like feeling guilty for something that could have been avoided."

"If I don't sneak up on you, Snow," Ruslan replies, "you won't let me near you. And I want to come close. See? I don't have a choice."

I can't turn around, and I can't get nervous. I have to stay calm. But beside this guy, excitement always throws me into a storm.

"Why... why do you always choose the wrong words, Marjanov?" I breathe out dully, in frustration. "Of course not! I have..."

His face twists. I know it from the change in his tone.

"...an idiot who left you hungry! I heard everything from Romka's room. That Rybkin of yours is an idiot! And you don't know him at all!"

I freeze, my back going tense. These two boys who were children yesterday, my brother and his best friend, allow themselves far too much. Opening the cabinet with the first-aid kit, I keep searching for the medicine.

"And how are you and Romka any better?" I answer coldly. "I'm terribly tired today and I haven't finished my work. I still don't know when I'll get to sleep, but I have to cook just so I can eat something, because the two of you left the fridge empty and never thought that you aren't the only ones here."

"Then maybe I should help you, Alice? I can."

I find the can of Panthenol and shake it. Then I return to him. He has removed the towel and tossed it onto the chair with his T-shirt, and as I come closer, my gaze runs straight into his bare, firm stomach, where his black jeans sit much too low.

The fabric at the waistband is wet, and his skin has reddened even more. Ideally, Ruslan should be lying down so I can treat his stomach properly. But I will never dare do that, knowing he won't stay quiet and my heart will beat too fast from his shameless jokes.

I have no idea how I'm supposed to touch him at all.

My doubts must show on my face, because when I test whether the can works and lift my eyes to him, he jerks his chin in refusal, as if he has guessed my thoughts.

"Oh no, Snow! I don't know how," he warns, baffled. "That white crap is definitely going to land on my pants, and my mother will be horrified by my depravity. She already doesn't have the best opinion of me, so I'm not touching 'that'!"

"Does anyone think well of you, Marjanov?"

He raises an eyebrow as if considering it. But he cares so little that I can predict the answer.

"I don't give a damn."

"Fine," I give in. I can't leave him without help, since I'm the reason for this burn. "I'll help. Just stand still."

I squeeze foam onto my palm and lean slightly toward him to apply it to his skin. Taking some of the product on my fingers, I carefully touch Ruslan's stomach, and he goes still under my hand, his chest lifting on an inhale.

Or maybe I only imagine him going still, turning into pure attention, because the silence in the kitchen is deafening, and the touch feels far more intimate than our failed kiss.

"Does it hurt?"

"No. Pure bliss, Snow! The only thing softer than your hands would be your lips. Keep going, baby. You smell amazing. What is that, violet? Damn, I have no idea what violets smell like, but I know what you smell like!"

Oh God. It's terrifying even to imagine what this seducer, who has no respect for boundaries, will grow into. But my own reaction makes me nervous. I don't feel anything like this when I touch Vlad, and I don't think about anything like this.

And I don't go speechless while listening to our breathing in the silence.

Ruslan suddenly touches my hair and removes the clip from it, making the still damp strands spill over my back and shoulders. I immediately pull my fingers away from his stomach and straighten, losing the ability to speak completely. I freeze, feeling the rare heat of embarrassment in my cheeks, because Ruslan's touch is that hot.

"Stop."

"What?"

"You know what."

"I can't."

I lift my head, feeling the weight of my lashes, to look at his face.

I'm in no mood for his games and amusements right now. This is all too much. And if he wants to have fun, he can go back to Romka. Those two are made for each other.

But Ruslan's face is serious and, surprisingly, focused, though what he says is entirely in his style:

"Damn, Snow, your eyes are so blue right now. In the daytime they're light blue. I wonder what color they are at night. Maybe we should turn off the light?.. I'll do everything myself. Just let me."

He stands half a step away and lowers his dark gaze to my lips, then to my neck, studying me without shame.

I'm wearing a sweatshirt, and there's nothing underneath. It's not my habit to put on the top half of my underwear after a shower if I'm going to sleep. Under his brazen gaze, my nipples harden against my will, showing through the fabric. I stand frozen and lost, not for the first time immobilized by his frankness and his blueberry-colored eyes, the kind that can make you lose touch with reality if you look too closely.

Ruslan lifts his hand and takes hold of my zipper pull. Swallowing greedily, he slowly draws it down, unzipping my sweatshirt lower.

I have the can of Panthenol clenched in one hand and burn foam on the palm of the other, which I had been using to treat his stomach a minute ago. With that foam-covered palm, before I even understand what is happening, I slap him across the cheek, forcing his dark eyes to close and making him let me go.

I recoil, but my heart is pounding like crazy, forcing blood through my veins with effort.

"Alice..."

But I have already turned away, and I toss the can back into the first-aid drawer. Wiping my hand on the towel, I sit down at the table with my laptop, unable to say anything after what happened. I can't even curse. I don't have the strength for it.

 
I wait for him to leave. There will be no more "help," but Ruslan is silent. And he doesn't leave, lazily wiping foam from his face. He stands there silently for a while as I try to work, just to pull myself together somehow.

"Still, is the word 'possessed' used here to mean 'owning' or 'obsessed'?" I look at the text and can't find the answer, because I can barely see the text at all.

Ruslan goes to the sink and washes my cup. He's in our home often, so finding things in the kitchen isn't a problem for him.

He pours tea and looks around. After peering into the fridge, he returns to the cabinet and takes out bread and a bottle of olive oil. He pulls the toaster closer. Turning it on, he makes a couple of pieces of toast, wets them with olive oil, and spreads the only avocado he finds on the table over the top, not forgetting to salt everything. First he sets the toast on a plate in front of me, then the tea.

"Here, Snow. With honey and ginger, the way you like it. And this is instead of dinner. They're good. Try them. My mother is obsessed with healthy eating and has them every morning."

He sighs almost regretfully:

"Although I would have fed you something more filling. Alice?"