I knocked, then pushed the door open.
The clinical smell was stronger here, undercut by Ophelia’s light fragrance that I’d caught during surveillance ops when we’d been confined in tight spaces together.
She stood by the window, sunlight catching her wavy hair. She turned when I entered, and her brows flared.
“Sir.”
The word slipped out by habit, ingrained from the Labyrinth investigation. After my silence yesterday, she had no reason to expect me.
I scanned the room—the monitors showing Oliver’s steady vitals, the IV stand with its saline drip, the gauze on the bedside table. I’d seen it all before on my previous visits.
Oliver was propped up with pillows, a white bandage wrapped around his head where they’d struck him. His color was better than on my last visit, but he was still pale. Exhaustion was evident in every line of his body when he sat up.
“Sir.” He winced in pain. “I didn’t expect?—”
“Don’t move.” I crossed to him in three strides and reached out before I could stop myself, checking the bandage at his temple. The gauze was clean, without fresh bleeding, but the wound’s edge was visible beneath it. “How are you feeling?”
“My head aches, and the light hurts. But I can handle it.”
“What did the doctor say?” I asked Ophelia.
“He’ll be in shortly to go over his discharge.”
“Thank you for being here,” Oliver said. “Both of you.”
A knock interrupted whatever I might have said in response, and a doctor entered with a tablet tucked under his arm. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shone it in Oliver’s eyes, making notes between checks.
“Your color is better than yesterday.” He clicked the penlight off. “Is someone able to assist you when you leave?”
Neither of us spoke, then Ophelia stirred beside me. “Perhaps Tag or Con could?—”
“No.” The word came out harsher than I intended. I forced my shoulders to relax and my jaw to unclench.
“Someone needs to commit to his care. Otherwise, he stays here, under hospital observation,” the doctor said as he checked his mobile.
“I have a place north of Inverness. Greymarch.” The words left my mouth before I’d made the conscious choice to say them. “It’s isolated and quiet. Ideal for continued recovery.”
Oliver’s brow furrowed. “Sir, I couldn’t impose?—”
“It’s not an imposition.” I turned to Ophelia, and what I said next sealed my own fate. “You know his baseline. You’ll monitor him.”
She blinked, processing. “If you’re certain…”
“I’m certain.”
I turned to the doctor. “I’ll take full responsibility for his discharge.”
“Very well,” he said, making another note on his tablet. “If you’re both committed to his care, I’ll process the paperwork.” He walked toward the door. “If he complains of worsening headaches or vision problems, bring him in.”
“Understood.”
While we waited for the discharge paperwork to be completed, I stayed with Oliver while Ophelia left to gettheir bags from the hospital’s guesthouse that had been her base for the last two weeks.
Oliver sat on the edge of the bed, pale and exhausted. Neither of us spoke.
When Ophelia returned, he took his bag into the bathroom to change. Through the doorway, I could see her unpacking his things and laying out clothes. They worked together easily, naturally.
He emerged in jeans and a shirt that hung loose on his frame, moving slowly, one hand on the wall.
