Wrath of the Wolf Queen [HOTWP #2]

Chapter Sixteen: NAOMI

Four days pass in a flash. I remain in Nikolai's room for most of that time, lying in his bed as I shuffle through my thoughts. My days consist of lying or sleeping or thinking, broken up only by when he pokes his head in to check on me. For the most part, though, he leaves me alone, which I'm thankful for.

Because, really, my thoughts towards Nikolai have become convoluted. I have to keep reminding myself that he's my enemy, that he took my sister, or else I start thinking about how he's been taking care of me. I can't stop replaying that time he washed my hair inside my head, nor can I overlook the gentle words he uses with me.

Hell, it makes it a little harder to hate him.

By the fifth day, I am agitated and restless. Most of my depression has transformed into anger, and thoughts of Kohl have turned reckless and violent. Not to mention my thoughts of Nikolai. Either way, I need to get out of this bed, and this room.

I launch myself from the bed and rifle through his cupboards until I find an oversized white shirt and black drawstring pants. Then, after a quick shower in the ensuite, I unlatch the door and step into the living room. I half-expect the Fragor heir to be there, but he's not, so I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Now, is that sigh of relief because you can't see me, or you're merely glad to be out of that room?"

I start and whirl around. I realize I spoke too soon, because Nikolai lays sprawled along the couch, his eyes bleary and his lips quirked up in a smile. The shock must show on my face because he snorts and closes his eyes.

"Ah, the former. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint."

I take a moment to observe his state. His clothes are rumpled, and his white hair is mussed from sleep. "Don't you want your room back, Fragor? That couch can't be comfortable."

"No, I won't take your bed." He cracks open an eye, a lopsided grin capturing his lips as he adds, "unless you're willing to share it."

Heat spears through my gut, and I turn away before he can see my blush. He keeps making these throw-away comments that leave my skin feeling hot, and it's really starting to get on my nerves.

"On second thought, maybe the couch is where you ought to be," I grit out, stalking over to the kitchenette.

He places a hand over his heart – I don't see him do it, I just know – and the fact I know irks me to no end. I also, somehow, know the exact words that are going to come out of his mouth.

"You–"

"I wound you. I know." I throw him a sharp look and, indeed, his hand is placed over his heart. My anger flares. "I seem to do that a lot."

His grin is devious and even a little bit sexy. I hate that I find anything about him sexy. "Of course."

He stands from the couch and walks over. I try desperately to ignore his masculine presence as I start rooting through the cupboards, looking for nothing in particular. He stops several feet behind me and smirks.