Chapter 28
Kiryan
I braced a hand on the mattress and pushed myself upright. The shoulder harness bit into the wound, and my left lung felt like somebody scraped it with a dull blade.
"Move back in. I need you to take care of me."
She glanced toward the doorway. Olga waited out there with two aides, and Feodor had even arranged for a nurse to stay at the manor.
"You don't lack people to take care of you," she said.
"They aren't you."
"How are they different?"
Admitting I needed someone felt harder than ordering a room full of armed men to stand down. My father had treated need like weakness, then spent his life proving that indifference only got people killed. I'd learned him too well. Now it was on me to carve that rot out, piece by piece.
"I want you to take care of me."
Her lashes fluttered, just once.
The hand resting on my arm looked small, paint-smudged at the tips, a faint dusty blue. She'd been working before she came to the hospital. She hadn't thrown away the life she'd started rebuilding just because I'd taken a bullet.
I liked her like that.
And I hated myself for ever wanting to break her.
"Just take care of you?" she asked.
"And keep an eye on me," I said. "Make sure I don't go back to the office early, don't rip off the straps, and don't let Feodor sneak in paperwork at midnight."
Feodor's calm voice drifted in from the hall.
"That last one has already happened four times."
I looked toward the door. He studied the corridor with a blank face, like the wall had spoken instead of him.
Elena's mouth twitched.
"Feodor can handle that."
"He only knows how to rat me out."
"That is the most correct thing he's done all day."
I closed my hand around hers.
"You can take any room. The studio will be yours. The guards won't step into your private space without permission, and you don't need my approval to leave."
Her gaze dropped to our hands. I'd controlled docks, smuggling lines, and more lives than I cared to count. I'd never hated waiting like I did right then.
"At least until the doctor clears me completely," I said again, unable to stop myself.
"I'll move back," she finally said. "Temporarily."
Air finally filled my lungs again.
"Temporarily works."
"And you don't get to milk the wound for sympathy."
"I never did that."
She looked at the edge of my bandage, the red seeping through.
I sat back like nothing happened. "Accident."
She laughed.
And for that second, even the hole in my shoulder didn't hurt as much.
Back at the manor, Olga grabbed Elena in a tight hug.
"You finally came back."
"I'm just taking care of a patient," Elena said.
"Sure," Olga said, winking at me. "Just taking care."
I took Elena upstairs. She'd used to stay at the far end of the hall, so far it felt like a polite kind of imprisonment.
Now I'd set up a suite beside the master bedroom.
The connecting door could be locked from her side.
She could come closer when she wanted, and she could shut me out when she needed to.
The other door led to the studio.
Elena ran her fingers over a row of paints. "These aren't the basic ones I used before."
"I know."
"They're expensive."
"Good materials can't decide what a painting is worth," I said, "but they can keep the artist from suffering more than she has to."
She turned to me, hazel eyes softening.
"You remembered."
"I remember every important thing you've ever said."
"It didn't look like it before."
"Before, I was a goddamn idiot."
She nodded seriously. "On that, we don't disagree."
With her back in the manor, the days had sound again.
In the mornings she sketched at the table, and I slid the milk she forgot back in front of her.
At night she handed me pills and water, then checked the wound.
She didn't tiptoe around me anymore, and she didn't change her mind just because I frowned.
I'd spent half my life making people obey. Turns out being managed by her doesn't feel so bad.
The second week, the doctor removed most of the straps and cleared me for short showers. The nurse happened to be off.
For once, I figured fate had gotten something right.
Elena stood in the bathroom doorway with her arms crossed. "Wait until the nurse comes back tomorrow."
"The doctor said I can shower today."
"Olga can help you."
"She hasn't washed me since I was ten."
She stared at me for a few seconds. "You promised you wouldn't use the wound to get sympathy."
"I'm stating a medical condition."
She blew out a breath. "Fine. Get in."
Heat ran up my spine.
She set a non-slip chair under the spray, laid towels and clean dressings within reach.
"Sit."
"I can stand."
"Sit," she said, "or get out."
I sat.
She moved behind me and unbuttoned my shirt one by one. Every now and then the back of her fingers grazed my chest.
My body tightened on instinct.
Steam brought her freckles into sharp focus. She looked away, the tips of her ears going pink, but she still crouched to undo my belt.
The buckle clicked softly, and my breathing dropped low.
"I can do it," I said.
"Someone who hurts just lifting his arm doesn't get to act tough."
My pants slid down. She looked once, and her cheeks flared hot.
The thing between my legs was hard and erect, so engorged with blood that it was a bit purplish.
She shot me a glare and turned on the water. Warm streams ran through my hair and over my shoulders. She used a sponge carefully around the dressing, wiped my neck, my chest, my arms. Every time she leaned closer, my body went tighter, hungrier.
The sponge reached my stomach. I gripped the armrest hard.
"Don't go lower," I said.
"I'm not done."
"If you keep going, I'm not going to be able to follow the doctor's orders."
Her breathing went light. Water rolled off her jaw and disappeared into her collar, the fabric sticking to her waist. I didn't look away.
She dropped the sponge.
Her fingers didn't stop there.
They slid down, slow and sure, like she was testing the edge of a cliff and deciding she liked the view. The second she touched me, my whole body jolted. Surprise hit first. Then heat. Then the sharp, stupid rush of wanting that made my head go blank.
"Elena," I said, rough.
Her eyes lifted to mine, wide but steady. "You said you wanted me to take care of you."
"That's not exactly what I mean," I managed, and my voice broke anyway.
"Liar." Her mouth trembled, not with fear this time. With something else. "Just... tell me if I hurt you."
"You didn't," I said. "You really didn't."
She swallowed, and her hand moved again. Clumsy at first, like she didn't know what to do with all that power, then more deliberate when she felt the way my body reacted. She watched my face like she was learning a language by sound.
I'd expected her to pull away. To apologize. To get embarrassed and run.
She didn't.
That alone nearly ruined me.
"Look at you," I muttered, the words dragging out of my throat. "Acting sweet, and you're killing me."
Her lashes lowered. "You look like you're in pain."
"I am," I said. "Not the kind you're trying to fix."
She made a quiet sound, half annoyed, half fascinated, and her hand tightened just enough to make my vision flash white at the edges. I gripped the chair until my knuckles went pale, fighting the urge to reach for her with my bad shoulder.
Her throat bobbed. She kept going, gaze darting between my face and her own hand like she couldn't decide which one she wanted to watch more.
I laughed under my breath, a raw sound. "Jesus. Elena."
"What?" she snapped softly, flustered. "Stop saying my name like that."
"Like what?" I asked.
"Like you..." She trailed off, cheeks burning again.
"Like I can't get enough," I said, and my voice turned lower, dirtier. "Because I can't."
Her hand faltered. I caught her wrist gently with my right hand, guiding her back, not letting her stop.
"Don't," I said. "Don't you dare stop now."
Her breath stuttered. "You're really going to say that to me?"
"I'm going to say a lot worse," I told her. "You're the one who started it."
"I dropped a sponge," she said, like she could pretend this was an accident.
"And then your fingers slipped," I said. "Right where you wanted them."
Her eyes flashed. "You're unbelievable."
"You're brave," I corrected. "And you're driving me insane."
She stared at me like she didn't recognize me. "I've never seen you like this."
"Yeah?" My mouth curved, tight with need. "You should've. This side's yours. It has always been yours."
Her breathing turned shaky. She leaned in, close enough that steam and perfume and heat wrapped around me all at once. Her free hand pressed to my chest, right over my heartbeat.
It hammered against her palm.
"Still think this isn't medical?" I asked.
She huffed out a laugh, nervous and bright. "Shut up."
Her fingers sped up, and I sucked in a sharp breath, head tipping back. The harness tugged, the wound protested, but the pleasure swallowed it whole. I'd taken pain for years without flinching. This made me shake.
"Elena," I warned, and it sounded like her name belonged in a prayer I didn't deserve.
She watched me come apart like she couldn't look away.
And then it hit, fast and hard, ripping through me before I could even pretend I had control. My hand clenched on the chair; my other hand closed around her wrist, not stopping her, just holding on like she was the only thing keeping me upright.
I rode it out on a broken breath, jaw tight, eyes shut for one second too long.
When I opened them, she stood frozen, staring at her hand like it belonged to someone else.
My laugh slipped out, hoarse and helpless.
"This isn't part of the standard patient-care routine," I said, looking at the mess on her hand, unable to stop myself.
She lifted her chin, cheeks still red. "You're not a standard patient."
"Then I'm going to need a shower tomorrow, too."
"Tomorrow the nurse comes back."
"I can extend her vacation."
A towel smacked me right in the face.
"You wouldn't dare."