I nod slowly. “I’m probably still going to kill them. But yeah… that sounds good.”
“How did it go?” Enzo asks as I close the office door behind me.
I pause.
I feel lighter.
“Good, actually.”
He raises his eyebrows knowingly.
“Thank you,” I add, sticking my tongue out at him.
I shuffle over to where he’s waiting—leaning against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest, muscles straining against a fitted T-shirt. He’s in black sweatpants, not a suit in sight since before I got shot.
When I reach him, I bury my face in his chest and inhale his rosemary scent. His arms circle my waist, anchoring me to him.
The pain in my shoulder has faded to a dull ache, though I still don’t have full range of motion.
I smile up at him, taking in the sharp lines of his stubbled jaw, the way his eyes soften when they land on me.
“Tell me again?” I ask, grinning.
He rolls his eyes, but tightens his hold on my waist. “I love you, Isolde. I’minlove with you.”
I sigh and close my eyes. “Good.”
He growls, a deep rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “Good?”
“Mhm.” I step back. “Yeah, it’s good.”
For the past few weeks, I’ve asked him to say it over and over. Somehow, hearing those words now—despite having heard them a million times—hits deeper. Perhaps it's the near-death experience, perhaps it’s just knowing that he means it in a way I never thought possible. Whatever it is, I never want to stop hearing it.
He stalks toward me, a predatory gleam in his eyes, dangerous and delicious, though I know he’d never hurt me. He leans in, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and whispers, “If youweren’t still recovering, I’d take you over my knee until your ass was raw.”
He starts to pull away, but I catch him by the back of the neck, drag my tongue slowly up his cheek, and murmur, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
His pupils dilate and he groans.
The tension is broken by the sound of the elevator pinging.
We both head to the hall, finding Doc there with his signature warm smile crinkling his face. Enzo gave him keycard access while he’s monitoring my care which means he can come in whenever he wants without needing to be buzzed in.
“How’s my favorite woman?” he asks, coming over to ruffle my hair.
Enzo growls at him—though it’s more playful than actual jealousy.
“Relax. She’s about twenty years too young for me,” Doc laughs.
The three of us head into the living room where I take a seat and slip my top off over my head so Doc can check my wound. It’s become normal for him to see me in such a state it doesn’t even bother me anymore. He doesn’t look at me with anything other than professional care.
I hiss as he prods it, pain radiating down my arm.
Doc leans back after his exam. “Alright, it’s looking good—healing nicely. Keep movement minimal, but you do want to start moving it more, even with the pain, to help with recovery.”
He leaves not long after. He was staying in one of the lower apartments, but he’s heading back to his house in Albany, where his daughter lives. I give him a quick hug goodbye before he’s gone.
Enzo cooks dinner for us, which we eat in bed because I’m already finding it hard to keep my eyes open—between the residual pain and the therapy session today, I’m wiped.
