Page 137 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

"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."