“No.”
“Despite being uncomfortable.”
“Yes.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Fascinating.”
“We ate breakfast. I walked the halls a few times and took some phone calls. She told me to rest,” I say flatly. “Then she fell asleep.”
“Ah.” He nods as if that explains everything. “A classic maneuver. You could do nothing to protect yourself.”
He continues his examination, murmuring observations under his breath, clearly pleased with my progress. “Healing nicely. No signs of infection. Pain manageable. A few weeks and I can clear you to go ahead and get shot again.”
“It would go faster if I could move around, get out,” I reply. “Isn’t that what doctors push? Getting back to normalcy? You could talk to her?—”
He glances pointedly at the woman pinning me down. “You could wake her.”
“Absolutely not.”
Michael’s mouth twitches. He steps back, arms folding loosely over his chest as he studies the two of us, his gaze sharp but not unkind. He would never say it aloud, not if he values his continued employment and bodily integrity, but the thought is written plainly across his face.
The Bratva boss, held hostage by domesticity.
“She’s good for you,” he says lightly. “Though you’re probably scaring her to death.”
I scoff under my breath. “She’s trouble.”
“Yes. But you look more alive than you did four days ago. I didn’t have much hope, Mr. Baranov, when they carried you in. It seems you have something to live for.”
I don’t answer that.
Aly shifts again, sighing softly, and I feel it like a hook under my ribs. Michael notices, of course. He notices everything.
“I’ll stay for a few minutes,” he says, moving to the chair near the window instead of the door. “Maybe she’ll wake and I can impress upon her the importance of you getting back to normal operations, sans gunfights.”
“We’ll both need protection for that conversation,” I mutter.
He settles in, clearly entertained by the situation. I remain perfectly still beneath the warm, sleeping weight of the woman who has somehow turned my recovery into a quiet siege.
Michael’s gaze lingers on Aly longer than necessary, his earlier amusement draining into something sharper. He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t wake her, just watches the rise and fall of her breathing as if counting it.
“How long has she been this tired?” he asks casually.
I answer without thinking. “Since the hangar.”
“And before that?”
I hesitate. “Perhaps. I’ve been busy, but she does nap, and she’s often asleep when I get home.” I don’t mention that I know that because I’ve sought her out at late hours, tempted to taste her again, to teach her things she can’t imagine. But shehasbeen exhausted lately. “Could she be sick? She runs warm, and has been that way for a while now, and she falls asleep easily.”
“Any nausea?” His tone stays light and conversational. It’s as if we are discussing my blood pressure or the state of my stitches.
“Yes,” I say, then frown. “She’s been eating light lately. Her stomach is upset easily, mostly pasta…”
Michael hums. “And her cycle?”
The question lands wrong. I feel it immediately: a hairline fracture opening in the center of my chest. “That is not information I track. Or thatyouneed to know.”
“No,” he agrees mildly. “But you’d notice if she mentioned it.”
