He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “You scared me.”
I blinked. “Last night?”
His gaze hardened. “No. The accident. The way you pushed through it. The way you pretended it didn’t hurt.” He dragged a thumb along the sheet near my hip—not touching me, just closeenough to feel the pull. “You don’t have to do that here. Not with me.”
Something in my chest twisted.
“You’re acting like I’m fragile,” I whispered.
He shook his head slowly. “I’m acting like you’re mine. Eventually, you’ll learn what that means.”
The breath caught in my throat. Not fear. Not shock. Something deeper. Something dangerous.
“And mine don’t suffer in silence.” His gaze locked on mine. “Ever.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but my neck protested as I shifted, a sharp tug reminding me the doctor hadn’t been exaggerating. Dmitri’s eyes narrowed instantly.
“Meds, then lie down,” he murmured.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Natasha.” Just my name, but full of warning and heat and something that melted resistance right out of me.
I took the meds from the packet, followed the instructions, and then drank my water. Giving Dmitri the glass, I eased back into the pillows. He reached for the blanket, pulling it up higher, his fingers lingering near my collarbone.
“Good girl,” he said quietly—almost accidentally, but it sent a slow burn through me all the same.
I swallowed. “You’re really not going to let me do anything today, are you?”
“No.” He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. “Today, you rest. I’ll take care of everything else.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His voice was firm, unyielding. “And I will.”
I exhaled, sinking into the mattress despite myself. Maybe it was the pain meds kicking in. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe him. But I didn’t fight it. Not today. Not with him.
Natasha
Iwoke to quietness. No pain ripping through my shoulder. No pounding in my skull. No panic clawing at my lungs. Instead, I was greeted by stillness. Warm sheets. Sunlight slipping across the bed. Snow falling from the sky.
I blinked up at the ceiling, stretching slowly. My body protested in a few places, which I expected, manageable—but nowhere near the agony from yesterday. Dr. Maren had been right. Rest really did help.
Dmitri wasn’t beside me. The space where he’d slept was cool. A strange pinch of disappointment tugged at me. I pushed it away and made myself stand, testing my legs. They held. My neck stiffened a little, but nothing alarming. Shower first, then I’d go find him.
I padded into the bathroom and stepped under the warm spray, letting the heat loosen my muscles. I took my time, taking stock of what hurt and what didn’t. I felt better. More myself.Clearer. When I stepped back into the bedroom, towel wrapped around my body, I stopped dead.
A bow. On the bed. And under it? Bags. Dozens of them. High-end boutiques. Designer labels. Some brands I recognized only because I’d window-shopped them online like a broke daydreamer.
“What the…” I murmured.
Curiosity shoved me toward the bed. I loosened the ribbon, opened the first bag—and my jaw dropped. Clothes. Soft knits. Comfortable sets. Casual outfits. A coat. Lounge pants. Pajama sets that looked like luxury had been stitched into every seam. Matching bra and panty sets, tasteful and delicate. Then more clothes—enough for a week, easily. Another bag held shoes. Sneakers cushioned like clouds. Black leather boots that made me stare. Indoor slippers, plush and absurdly soft. He’d bought an entire wardrobe. Overnight. My chest tightened—part indignation, part disbelief, part something warm and hard to name.
Since I doubted I’d be leaving the house today, I picked a soft charcoal lounge set and slipped into it, grateful my muscles didn’t scream while I moved. Then I slid into the slippers, which hugged my feet like they’d been waiting for me.
I left the bedroom and stepped into the hallway—only to stop again. Voices. Movement. Boxes. People bustling in and out of rooms I hadn’t even explored yet. Decorations spilling over tables. Wrapping paper. Wreaths. Lights. And when I walked farther into the sunlit front room, I found him.
Dmitri. Standing in dark jeans and a fitted long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed up, tattoos on display, directing three men carrying in a massive Christmas tree like it weighed nothing. The space was big and bright—floor-to-ceiling windows, empty of furniture, echoing floors. But the tree? It swallowed the room in the best way.
