Page 34

“It’s honest.” He leans back, then catches himself when the movement pulls across his abdomen. “The wing stays sealed until I know who touched that account.”

I look toward the corridor where Misha sleeps and straighten. “Don’t turn every threat into an excuse for control.”

“A bullet came through your window.” He points to the folder.

“Why do you keep doing that?” I ask. “Turning every invasion into protection?”

I push the folder aside. “Bullets don’t make you my owner.”

His finger taps the Blacklist contract inside. “Technically, this does.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Alexei lifts one shoulder, then stops when the movement pulls at his side. “Honesty rarely helps.”

I lean across the desk until he has no choice but to meet my eyes. “Choke on the contract.”

Warm interest moves through his gaze. “That would make the annulment difficult.”

A fresh line of blood spreads beneath his shirt before I can answer.

I round the desk and hold out my hand. “Come with me.”

Alexei braces one hand on the desk. “You just told me to go to bed.”

I catch his forearm. “I’m trying to get you there before you bleed on your floor.”

“You make concern sound hostile.”

I pull his arm across my shoulders. “You make concern feel wasted.”

The walk to his bedroom is short, but his breathing turns shallow before we reach the bed. Files sit where medicine should be, a secure phone rests near the lamp, and two loaded magazines lie beside a glass of water. Even injured, he has turned the place into an office with pillows.

I point at the mattress. “Sit.”

Alexei lowers himself onto the edge and studies my face. “You’re enjoying this.”

I open the medical kit Irina left and snap on gloves. “I enjoy competent patients.”

He spreads his hands. “So not this.”

His fingers move slowly over the buttons, so I push them aside and open the shirt myself. Bruises cover his ribs and abdomen, dark against pale skin. Bratva ink crosses his upper chest and shoulder, while the black chess knight on his left ribs sits partly beneath surgical tape.

My hands remember the body before me.

Four years have changed it. More scars cut through the ink, and more muscle fills his chest, but I know the shape beneath my palms. I remember the weight of him, and it feels deeply unfair after five days of broken sleep.

My hands hesitate over skin they’ve touched without gloves.

I reach for the tray. “Medication first.”

Alexei shakes his head once. “No narcotics.”

“It’s a sedative,” I say, holding up the syringe. “It’s four in the morning, you have a fever, and you reopened your incision.”

I check the label again and draw medication into the syringe. “Rest is part of the treatment.”

He watches my hand. “I need a clear head.”