"That's why she lives," he says, and hangs up.
I pocket the phone. The room exhales. Oksana’s eyes find mine over the smoke.
"Well?" she asks.
"He was watching the whole time," I shake my head.
She grins, feral. "Of course he was."
I step in, take the cigarette from her fingers, take a long drag before I crush it in the saucer, and press my thumb to the edge of her bandage. "You’re getting stitched," I tell her. "Then we go home."
"Marito gets bossy after a rescue," she says, amused.
"Marito gets gray after a rescue," I mutter, and she laughs—low and alive.
The next day…
St.Raphael’s feels like it’s becoming far too familiar lately as we're back in one of their private rooms. Morning light cuts the blinds into neat ribs across Nico’s bed. The monitors make their patient little sounds: beep, breathe, live. I’m restitched and bandaged and pretending not to notice the tug when I move. Stephano notices enough for both of us.
"Sit," he says, pushing a chair closer with his foot; with an exasperated sigh, I do, and he instantly fixes a blanket around me like I’m a fussy cat. He hands me a cup with a lid because I apparently can’t be trusted with open liquids.
"You keep that up," I tell him, settling in, "and I might keep you as my husband."
He grins, crooked and shameless. "Good luck getting rid of me."
He tucks a loose lock of hair behind my ear like it’s a tactical adjustment. I let him. It’s absurd how much I like it, his hovering, the way his attention lands and stays. He checks my new bandage like a nurse, gentle and efficient. I should bite him for it, but I don’t.
"How’s the pain?" he asks.
"Marito," I say sweetly, "I’ve had worse hangovers."
He gives methe look, the one that says he’ll take the joke, but file the worry anyway. "Doctor said he should wake any second," he murmurs, tipping his chin toward his brother. "He’s been fighting out of it all morning."
I study Nico. He looks younger asleep, like a man who set his weapons down for once. The new bandage is clean, and the color is back in his cheeks. I tuck my fingers under the sheet and find his wrist. Warm. Steady. I didn’t know I’d been waiting to feel that.
Steph fusses again, smoothing a wrinkle in my blanket that offends only him. "You’re nesting," I say.
"Survival strategy," he says. "If I’m busy, I don’t think about you bleeding out in a warehouse while I was?—"
"Stop." I catch his hand. It’s bigger than mine, rougher. I thread our fingers. "We’re here."
He nods once, but his jaw is still working. We sit with the quiet. The monitors keep counting for us. He reluctantly releasesmy hand to refill my water, then takes it back like he changed his mind about being brave. When he sits again, I study him properly for the first time since we left the warehouse. Something’s… off. No, not off. Changed.
He’s not as playful as before. The edges of him are sharper, cut from some colder metal. There are lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there yesterday, tension pulled tight enough to carve new shadows across his face. And his eyes—God—there’s a new chill in them. A new depth. Something ruthless, simmering just beneath the surface.
"Stephano," I murmur. "You look different."
His gaze flicks to mine, unguarded for one second. "Do I?"
"Yes." I tilt my head, refusing to blink. "Like someone who made a choice and hasn’t forgiven himself for it yet."
Something raw crosses his face, gone as fast as it appears. But I saw it.
"My soul was split in half last night," he says quietly. "Choosing between you and Nico…" He shakes his head once; the movement is tight. "It wasn’t a choice any man survives the same."
My breath stutters. I try to laugh it off, but my chest feels suddenly heavy. "You should’ve gone with Nico and trusted me. I can handle myself."
"I know," he says at once, and there’s something like admiration—real admiration—in his eyes. "I saw that."
