Page 61 of Sexting His Assistant

I say nothing.

My mother has always had an unfortunate habit of seeing through locked doors.

“She’s not one of them,” Yelena says softly.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Before I can answer, the door opens.

Misha comes in first. Nina follows behind him.

Whatever conversation they had in the hallway has left marks on both of them. Misha looks carved out of anger, his mouth set, his eyes hard. Nina looks sullen, pale beneath the flush that still clings to her cheeks, her arms crossed tightly in front of her as if she is holding herself together by force.

Misha’s hand rests briefly at the back of her neck, protective and familiar, before he lets it fall. Nina steps away from him almost immediately, as if she resents needing the comfort.

I understand enough to know I will not like the rest.

Mirov finishes the final stitch and starts binding my shoulder. “No sudden movements. No lifting. No driving. No alcohol tonight.”

Misha snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Mirov glances at him. “I give medical instructions. Whether my patients follow them is between them and God.”

Nina makes a small sound. My eyes find hers immediately. She notices and looks away.

My mother sees it. Misha, unfortunately, also sees it.

Mirov steps back, satisfied with the bandage. “He needs rest.”

“I can walk,” I say.

“No,” my mother says.

“No,” Mirov says.

“No,” Nina says.

All three of them speak at once. The room stills.

Nina looks annoyed with herself for saying anything.

Misha looks annoyed with everyone.

My mother looks faintly amused, which is never a good sign.

I push myself off the medical bed anyway.

Pain rips through my shoulder so sharply that for one second, I lose the room at the edges. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone but Misha to catch.

He’s beside me before I can hide it, one hand gripping my good arm, his shoulder braced under mine.

“Stubborn bastard,” he mutters.

“Language,” my mother says automatically.

“He was shot,” Misha says.