“And if that means staying in my world? Accepting everything that comes with it?”
“Then that’s what it means.”
He takes my hand again, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “This world destroys good things, Kasimira. It corrupts everything it touches.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it just needs more good people refusing to be corrupted.”
“You think you can change it?”
“I think we can change our part of it. Make better choices, protect innocent people, use power responsibly.” I meet his eyes. “I think we can try.”
“We.”
“If you want there to be awe.”
“I want there to be awemore than I’ve wanted anything in decades.”
“Then there’s a we,” I say simply.
He leans down and kisses me again, deeper this time, with heat that has nothing to do with gentle caregiving. When he pulls back, we’re both breathing harder.
“You need to rest.”
“I need you to stop treating me like I’m dying.”
“You almost did die.”
“But I didn’t. And I won’t if you stop wrapping me in cotton and let me live again.”
“What do you want?”
“I want normal conversations about abnormal things. I want to help plan our response to Boris Petrov. I want to work on the victim outreach program. I want to be your partner, not your patient.”
“Partners,” he repeats, testing the word.
“In everything.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Everything about this is dangerous. That doesn’t make it less worth doing.”
For the first time since the shooting, he smiles. Really smiles, not the careful expression he’s been wearing while monitoring my recovery.
“Partners it is.”
Later that evening, when the pain medication has worn off and I can think clearly, I watch him read business reports in the chair beside our bed. Ten days of barely leaving my side, of careful touches and worried glances. Ten days of him holding himself back.
“Alaric,” I say, my voice dropping to that low, sultry register I know gets under his skin.
He looks up from his stack of papers, those green eyes narrowing like he’s already onto me. “What do you need? More water? Youcomfortable?” He’s all business, but I catch the way his gaze flicks to my lips, lingering just a second too long.
“Oh, I’m plenty comfortable,” I purr, shifting just enough to let his oversized shirt—my favorite sleepwear steal—slide off my good shoulder, exposing that snake tattoo he can’t stop staring at. “What Ineedis for you to ditch those boring documents and come to bed. Like,actuallyin bed. With me.”
His jaw tightens, and I see the war in his eyes. Mr. Mafia King trying to be a saint while his body’s screaming sinner.
“Kasimira,” he says, voice rough, “the doctor was crystal clear. No exertion. You’re still healing.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out.
