“Hi, Natasha. I’m Dr. Maren. I won’t take long, I promise.”
I tugged the sheet up out of instinct. Dmitri moved closer to the bed—not hovering, not touching, but standing like a guard ensuring nothing startled me.
Dr. Maren set her bag down and spoke gently. “I just want to check your neck mobility and that shoulder. I want to see if we need some imaging, but bruising and strain can appear later.”
I nodded.
She stepped close and guided me through a few movements—turn your head, look up, look down. Pain flared when I tilted left.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “That’s definitely stiff. And here—” She pressed lightly along the curve of my shoulder, and I flinched.
Dmitri growled quietly behind her. She ignored him with the skill of someone used to overprotective men.
“A bruise is forming here,” she explained. “Not unexpected, but painful. Nothing fractured. Just soft-tissue trauma.”
“From the accident?” I asked.
“Most likely.” She offered a small smile. “And maybe a little from other activities.” Her tone made heat flood my face. She wasn’t judging. Just noting what was obvious. She dug into her bag and pulled out a small packet. “I’m giving you something light for the pain and stiffness. It won’t knock you out, just help your muscles relax.”
I nodded again, suddenly exhausted.
“She needs rest,” Dr. Maren added, directing it at Dmitri but speaking to me. “Not a whole day in bed—just take it easy, hydrate, and avoid sudden movements.”
Dmitri’s jaw flexed. “She’ll rest.”
“I will,” I murmured, though it sounded more like a promise to him than the doctor.
Dr. Maren packed up, gave me a warm squeeze on the arm, and slipped out. Silence settled. Dmitri stood there watching me. Not guilty. Not apologetic. Just resolute. As if he’d already decided I wasn’t lifting a finger today unless he allowed it. I lay back against the pillows, letting out a slow breath. My body hurts. But I wasn’t scared. I looked over at Dmitri and settled into the spot where I was laying.
His scowl settled into a lazy smile that looked good on him.
“What?” I asked.
“You look good relaxed in my space.” He admitted.
I smiled back, not up to fighting him. “Understood.”
He huffed a low laugh—barely there, more breath than sound—but it warmed something in me. He moved from the foot of the bed, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to startle me even though he’d had me beneath him in every way just hours ago.
“Do you need anything?” he asked. But there was no illusion of choice in his tone. He was already assessing, already deciding.
“I’m okay,” I said.
He arched a brow. “That wasn’t the question.”
A small puff of amusement escaped me. “Water might be nice.”
He nodded once, as if my answer passed some silent test. Then he crossed the room to the table near the window, where a pitcher and glass waited—already prepared, probably before I woke up. The control in that simple gesture made my chest tighten.
He brought the glass back and handed it to me, fingers brushing mine. Warm. Steady. Present.
“Slow sips,” he instructed.
“I’m not injured,” I muttered.
“Mm.” He sat on the edge of the mattress, eyes flicking over my face, my neck, the shoulder the doctor had examined. “You’re something.”
I set the glass down on my lap, ignoring the way my hand trembled slightly—from pain, from last night, from him. “Dmitri…”
