Her pen stops moving for a second, then she continues writing. “The anesthesia can cause disorientation. It’s normal.”
“I’m not disoriented, Doctor.”
She meets my eyes for the first time since she walked in. Those brown irises with the gold near the center hold mine for two heartbeats, and the impact runs through me like a second set of bullets. Then, she drops her gaze back to the chart.
“Your vitals are stable. Blood pressure is still lower than I’d like, but that’s expected given the blood loss. You’re on a morphinedrip for the pain, and I’d recommend keeping it that way for at least the next forty-eight hours.”
“I don’t like morphine. Makes my head foggy.”
“Your headshouldbe foggy. You had four hours of surgery and nearly died twice on the table.”
“Only twice?” I repeat with a smirk. “Must be losing my touch.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. She kills it before it becomes anything, but I see it, and I take note of it. Not as leverage. As proof that the woman behind the professional mask has a sense of humor that she’s choosing not to share with me yet.
“I’m going to check your incision sites.” She sets down the clipboard. “This might be uncomfortable.”
She pulls the blanket back and lifts the edge of my gown. The second her fingers touch my skin, every nerve ending in my body fires at once. Cool and careful, she peels back the bandage on my abdomen, and I have to actively remind myself that she’s examining sutures, not doing what my dick wants her to be doing.
I watch her face while she works. Total focus. Her brow pulls together just barely, and that lower lip catches between her teeth for half a second before she releases it. My cock stirs despite my medically dulled senses, and I can’t stop the grunt that makes its way out of my throat.
She has no idea what she just fucking did to me in that half a second.
Her fingertips graze the skin below the incision, and my abdominal muscles clench under her touch. She glances up,probably to see if she’s hurting me. She’s not. At least, not the way she thinks.
“The abdominal wound is healing well,” she explains. “No signs of infection. I’ll want to monitor the liver involvement closely over the next few days.”
“How closely do you plan to monitor me, Doctor? Because if it’s anything like this right here, I don’t mind at all.”
The look she gives me should probably scare me, but it does the opposite. Her chin lifts, and her gold-flecked eyes narrow, and for a second, I get a glimpse of the Kozlov fire underneath that fancy title. My pulse spikes harder than the morphine can suppress.
“I monitor all my patients with the same level of attention, Mr. Sorokin.”
“I doubt that.”
She tugs my gown back into place with a crispness that tells me I’ve gotten under her skin. Good. Her fingertips brush my hip on the way, and even though it’s accidental, it gets my blood pumping even harder.
“Your hand will require physical therapy once the wounds have healed. I’d recommend gentle range-of-motion exercises within two weeks.”
“And the one in my stomach?”
“The bullet nicked your liver. I repaired the damage, but you’ll need to stay off your feet for at least a week, preferably two. No strenuous activity, no heavy lifting, and absolutely no leaving this bed without my say-so.”
I hold eye contact and let the corner of my mouth pull up. “Well, if you insist on keeping me in bed, Doctor, who am I to argue?”
A flush creeps up the side of her neck, and watching it spread is the most satisfying thing that’s happened to me since I woke up in this room.
She clears her throat and says, “I’ve restricted access to your room. Your brother is your only approved visitor.”
“My brother?”
“The man who brought you in. He identified himself as your brother.”
There’s no way she believed that Ruslan, the man with a face like a cinder block, is related to me, and I seriously doubt he claimed to be, but again, I’ll play along. “Right. My brother.”
“Is there anyone else you’d like me to add to the list?”
“No. Just you.”
