Chapter 41: The spoiled princess
’Zip.’
The slider pulled up smoothly to the top of her neck.
Instead of stepping back, Aaron kept his hands on her waist. He leaned down slightly, his chin almost resting on her shoulder.
"There. Perfect fit."
Isabella’s hands flew to his wrists, trying to push his heavy arms away from her waist. "Aaron... let go."
"Why?" he whispered, his voice dark and playful right beside her ear. "You look beautiful, Isabella."
"You’re too close," she panted, her heart racing so fast she felt dizzy. She could feel his scent wrapping around her senses like a thick fog. It was overwhelming. It made her head spin. "Please. Step back."
Aaron stared at the side of her flushed face, watching the way her pulse fluttered wildly in her throat. He loved her fear. He loved the way she reacted to him, even if she was trying so hard to fight it.
Before he could push her any further, a sudden knock sounded against the outer wall of the hallway.
"Boss," one of his security guards called out from the main shop. "We have a call from Moscow. It’s urgent."
Aaron’s jaw tightened. A flash of irritation crossed his face, but he let go of her waist, stepping back toward the curtain.
"Don’t move," he told her, his voice returning to its normal, firm command. "Stay right here. I’ll be back in two minutes."
He pushed the curtain open and walked out, his heavy footsteps fading down the hallway.
Isabella stood alone in the fitting room, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.
Her back still felt warm where his fingers had touched her. Her mind was a chaotic mess of fear, confusion, and an embarrassing, hot rush of blood that wouldn’t slow down.
’Don’t move,’ he had said.
A sudden spike of stubborn anger flared through her chest.
She wasn’t his dog. She wasn’t his prisoner. She was tired of being told where to stand, where to sit, and when to speak.
Kian had done that to her for years, and she was not about to let Aaron Kazarov do the exact same thing just because he had bought her a few dresses.
"I’m not staying here," she muttered to herself.
She turned around, reaching out with both hands to find the velvet curtain. She pulled it aside and took a step out into the hallway.
The floor felt firm under her shoes. She took two slow, careful steps, her fingers lightly trailing along the smooth wallpaper of the corridor.
’Three steps.’
Then, without any warning, the world tilted.
A sudden, strange heaviness settled over her head. The gentle hum of the shop’s background music grew distant, muffled as if she had been plunged underwater.
A sharp, high-pitched ringing started in her ears, drowning out every other sound.
Isabella stopped, her breath catching. Her legs felt suddenly hollow, like two paper straws trying to hold up her weight.
The fever hadn’t left her.
The medicine from the resort had simply masked it, and the stress, the heat, and the sudden rush of adrenaline from being near Aaron had finally broken through the last of her strength.
"No..." she whispered, reaching out blindly with her right hand to find the wall.
Her hand missed the smooth paper. Instead, her body leaned too far to the left, crashing hard into a tall metal rack of coats.
’CRASH!’
The heavy iron rack tipped over, metal hangers clattering violently against the hard floorboards, clothes spilling everywhere in a chaotic heap.
In the front of the shop, Aaron froze mid-sentence, the phone still pressed to his ear.
His face changed instantly. The calm, arrogant expression vanished, replaced by a dark, terrifying sharp focus.
He dropped the phone onto the counter without a word and shoved past his guard, taking the hallway in two long, massive strides.
He ripped the curtain aside.
Isabella was down on her knees among the fallen coats, one hand pressed against the base of a tall mirror, trying desperately to push herself back up.
Her skin was ghastly pale, beads of cold sweat shining on her forehead, her lips completely colorless.
"Isabella!" Aaron called out, his voice stripped of all its usual humor.
She tilted her head toward the sound of his voice, her eyes wide, glassy, and completely unfocused. "I’m... I’m fine..."
She wasn’t.
Before the last word left her lips, her eyes rolled back, her arm buckled, and her knees gave out completely.
Aaron crossed the remaining space before she could touch the floor. He dropped to one knee, his large arms sweeping under her back and knees, catching her limp body against his chest just in time.
She felt burning hot through the thin silk of the navy dress. Her head rolled back against his shoulder, completely lifeless.
His guard rushed into the hallway behind him, his hand reaching for his sidearm. "Boss? What happened?"
Aaron didn’t look back. He cradled Isabella tight against his broad chest, his heart hammering violently against his ribs—not with anger, but with a raw, vicious panic he hadn’t felt in over a decade.
He looked down at her pale, unconscious face, his fingers tightening around her waist.
"Call the doctor," Aaron ordered, his voice dropping into a dark, terrifying growl that made the guard flinch. "Now."
The ride back to the resort passed in a blur of motion and dark quiet. Aaron carried Isabella through the high-arched glass doors of the suite himself, refusing to let any of his men touch her.
He laid her down gently in the middle of the massive bed, kicking off her shoes and pulling the thick white duvet over her shoulders.
Her face was flushed red, her skin burning under his touch, her breathing shallow and fast.
Within twenty minutes, the resort’s private doctor arrived... an older man carrying a leather medical bag. He moved quickly, placing a cold stethoscope against her chest and checking her eyes with a small penlight.
"She has a severe fever," the doctor said, stepping back from the bed and wiping his brow. He looked up at Aaron, who stood at the foot of the bed like a dark, looming shadow, his arms folded tight across his chest.
"She is still dehydrated and exhausted, and her body has simply given out from the stress. I am going to hook up an intravenous drip to get fluids back into her system."
"Fix it," Aaron said flatly. "What else?"
"I need to run full blood work," the doctor continued, opening his bag to pull out tiny glass vials and needles.
"Basic panels, infection markers, metabolic function. And, as standard procedure for any woman of childbearing age before I prescribe stronger fever reducers or order diagnostic imaging, a routine pregnancy test."
Aaron didn’t blink. "Do whatever tests you need. Just lower her temperature."
The doctor nodded quickly and set to work. He tied a rubber strap around Isabella’s slender arm, swabbing the crook of her elbow with alcohol before drawing the blood.
Isabella stirred slightly, a weak murmur escaping her dry lips, but she didn’t open her eyes. Once the IV drip was running into her vein, the doctor packed his bag and left the vials with a waiting courier outside the door.
That night, the suite remained bathed in the soft, low glow of a single bedside lamp.
Aaron never left the room. He pulled a wooden chair right up to the side of the mattress and sat beside her.
Every hour, as the fever tried to spike again, he soaked a small cotton cloth in a bowl of ice water, wrung it out with his large hands, and gently pressed it to her forehead.
He wiped the beads of sweat from her temples, from the delicate line of her jaw, and from the base of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
When her skin turned clammy and she began to shiver beneath the covers, he reached down and pulled the heavy blanket up to her chin, tucking the edges around her shoulders with painstaking care.
When she whimpered in her sleep, reaching out blindly into the cold air, Aaron immediately caught her tiny hand inside his broad, warm palm.
He didn’t pull away. He let her fingers lock around his thumb, anchor herself to him while her mind chased feverish nightmares.
He adjusted her pillows so she could breathe easier.
He held a glass of water with a straw to her dry lips when she woke up for a brief, confused moment, coaxing her to take slow sips before she drifted off again.
There was no rush in his hands, no frustration in his eyes.
For a man who ruled a dark, violent world through fear and raw power, who had spent his life surrounded by blood and cold strategy, this soft, patient care came to him as naturally as breathing.
When he looked down at her small, fragile face resting against the white linen, he didn’t see an asset or a prize to win.
He saw the little girl whose father had loved her dearly, often boasting about her to him, spoiled her rotten... he saw the princess who had been wrapped in wealth and protected from every harsh breeze in the world until her father died and left her to wolves.
Her father had catered to her every whim, pampering her until she thought the whole world was safe.
Aaron stepped into that void without a second thought. He wanted to feed her, dress her, hold her, and shield her from every unpleasant truth.
He wanted to pamper her so completely that she would never have to feel afraid or cold ever again.