Concern threaded through it — or at least what sounded like concern.
I blinked.
Reality snapped back into place.
He was standing directly in front of me now.
Too close.
His eyes were fixed on my hand.
I followed his gaze.
My right palm was stained crimson.
My nails had broken skin without me noticing.
Blood dripped slowly onto the polished hardwood floor.
Tiny dark spots bloomed where it landed.
I unclenched my fist deliberately — forcing my fingers to unfurl one by one.
The pain increased as pressure released.
I wiped the blood on my jeans.
“Old habit,” I said evenly. “My body reacts before my mind catches up.”
I met his gaze. “I’m fine.”
The tremor underneath my words betrayed the truth.
Four years.
Four years of therapy.
Four years of surgeries.
Four years of rebuilding muscle, nerve pathways, and speech.
None of it erased trauma that lived in my nervous system.
People believed time healed wounds.
Whoever “people” were had never survived what I had.
Ruslan’s jaw tightened slightly as he looked at my hand again.
He didn’t comment.
He just watched. Processing. Assessing.
Cataloguing my reactions like data.
I stepped past him before the silence grew heavier.
The guest room he had prepared for me lay at the end of the hall.
