My jaw nearly drops.
Yelena? Escort duty?
But then she shifts toward the door without acknowledging me and says, “Get Anya.”
A moment later, the door creaks open, and my maid, Anya—sweet, soft-voiced, allergic-to-eye-contact Anya—peeks inside like she’s worried she’ll get vaporized just for breathing.
Yelena gestures toward me. “She’s cleared for dinner. Wheelchair only. Help her into it.”
Anya nods quickly, nearly dropping the clipboard in her hands. She wheels the chair in from the hall, all blush and nervous movements, and starts adjusting the footrests with the seriousness of a surgeon prepping for open heart.
I hate the damn chair. Hate how it makes me feel like something broken being pushed around. But I know better than to argue with doctor’s orders—especially when the doctor reports directly to Konstantin.
I shift forward slowly, and Anya steps in to support me, one hand fluttering near my elbow like she’s worried she’ll accidentally snap me in half. We move at a snail’s pace, but we get there. I sink into the seat, biting back the wince in my ribs.
Yelena gives me a once-over. Then, just as I brace for her to turn and ghost down the hall like she always does, she speaks.
“How are you feeling?”
Four words. Quiet. Measured. But they land differently.
I blink. Not because of the question—plenty of people have asked it. But because it’s coming fromher.
“Like I got run over by a truck full of bricks,” I say, because humor’s easier than admitting the rest.
She raises an eyebrow. Just a little.
“I mean—I’m hungry. Like, all the time. But I guess that’s what healing’s supposed to be, right?” I add quickly, tripping over the words. “I’ve never exactly been kidnapped, gotten into a gun chase, slammed into a car door, driven off a cliff, and then passed out from blood loss before, so—” I stop. Pressing my lips together.
Too much. Way too much.
The silence stretches.
But Yelena doesn’t comment. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t even look particularly alarmed. She just nods once and starts walking ahead—leaving me with the weight of everything I just blurtedout and the unsettling feeling that maybe she understoodmorethan she let on.
I exhale softly. Not quite a laugh. Not quite relief. Just something close to a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Nikolai falls in beside the chair, hands in his pockets, quiet again. Just a flick of his gaze every few steps.
We round the corner, and something shifts.
I smell him.
Cedarwood and bergamot. Heat and danger. Konstantin.
It hits before I see him—before the hallway bends toward the dining room, before I hear the measured sound of his boots on the tile, before anyone says a word.
My heart leaps like it’s got a death wish. Stupid. So stupid. He’s been gone for days—working, I think. The nights blur together in this place. Sometimes, I swore I imagined him—just a shadow in the doorway, adjusting my blanket, brushing his fingers along my wrist like he couldn’t help himself.
But Ismellhim now. And dreams don’t come with cologne.
I glance down at my current disaster—nightgown, sling, bare feet, the IV bruise still blooming purple-yellow on my arm.
The king is back.
And his queen looks like she lost a fight with a blender.
52
