I can’t talk to her right now. Not with Lev Morozov recovering down the hall. If Daria hears even a trace of guilt in my voice, she’ll push, and if she pushes, I’ll crack. That’s what she does. She finds the fracture and applies pressure until everything spills out, and I love her for it under normal circumstances. Right now, it would destroy us both.
The worst part is that she’s probably worried. Daria doesn’t call three times in a week unless something is on her mind, and my dodging her only feeds it. I picture her in St. Petersburg, phone in one hand and Kira by her side, frowning at the screen and wondering what the hell is going on with her sister. Calling her back and telling her everything is fine is the kind thing to do, but the word “fine” would taste like poison, and Daria has always been able to hear a lie before I finish telling it.
The day drags on. I discharge two patients, prep for tomorrow’s scheduled surgery, and eat a sandwich at my desk from the cafeteria that tastes like cardboard. By 9 p.m., the floor has quieted down, and most of the day staff have gone home. Going home would be the smart thing to do. I should let the night team handle rounds, and get some actual sleep for once.
Instead, I grab fresh gauze and medical tape and head for room 412.
His room is dark when I push the door open. Television off. Curtains drawn. He’s propped up against the pillows with his eyes closed, and for a second, I think he’s asleep.
Then I notice the book on his lap. Something thick; I can’t make out the title from the doorway. His injured hand rests on the pages, the bandaged fingers splayed carefully to avoid pressure on the healing fractures.
“Mr. Sorokin,” I whisper. “I need to change your bandages.”
His eyes snap open like he knew I was there before I spoke. The pale blue irises lock onto mine, and my traitorous body responds with a throb between my legs that I absolutely did not give it permission to produce.
The corners of his mouth curve up just enough to let me know he’s been waiting. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me, Doctor.”
“Hospitals don’t run themselves.” I set the supplies on the bedside table and pull on a pair of exam gloves. “Sit up, please.”
He pushes himself upright and tries to hide the wince that crosses his face. Three bullet wounds don’t forgive quickly, no matter how stubborn the patient. I notice he’s ditchedthe hospital gown for a plain black T-shirt, which means the “brother” smuggled in clothes.
The T-shirt is a problem. It fits him too well, stretching across his chest and shoulders, accentuating the muscles that make my mouth dry. I drag my attention back to the task at hand.
“Lift your shirt,” I tell him.
He does as I ask, pulling the fabric up to his ribs with his good hand. Underneath, his abdomen is bruised skin and sutures and lean muscle that has no right looking this good on a man who was bleeding out a week ago.
I peel back the old dressing and lean in. It’s healing cleanly, with no redness, swelling, or sign of the delayed hemorrhage I used as an excuse with Savin. The sutures are holding, and the surrounding skin looks healthy.
I press two fingers gently beside the wound to check for tenderness, and his stomach contracts under my touch. The muscle flexes hard beneath my hand, and I hear him pull in a slow, controlled inhale through his nose. My eyes stay locked on the sutures because looking up would put us six inches apart, and I will not be held responsible for what my face does.
Every one of his inhales moves the muscles beneath my fingertips, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of the fact that we’re alone and my hand is on his body. The ache between my thighs worsens, and I clench my jaw to keep from making a sound.
I reach across him for the fresh gauze on the opposite side of the cart, and his fingers brush mine.
Not by accident. Definitely not a grab. Just the lightest graze of his knuckles across the back of my hand as I stretch past him. Barely a touch at all.
Yet it tears through me like voltage. My nipples harden under my scrubs, and the throb low in my belly turns into a full-body pulse that makes my knees weak.
I drop the gauze. It tumbles onto the floor, and I take a full step back before I’ve made the conscious decision to move.
“Sorry,” I manage. “Let me get a new one.”
I turn away and busy myself pulling a fresh packet, using those three seconds to get my shit together. My pulse is hammering, the skin where he touched me is still buzzing, and the sensation skitters up my arm and down into my core.
This is adrenaline. That’s what this is. I’m running on fumes and stress and the constant low-grade terror of being caught, and my body is confusing danger with something else.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
When I turn back, he’s watching me. No smirk this time, no teasing. Just watching. His gaze drops to my hands, where I’m holding the gauze packet hard enough to dent the packaging, and then it travels back up to my face.
He doesn’t say a word. The bastard doesn’t have to. He knows what just happened.
I step forward and finish the job as quickly as possible. Fresh dressing on the abdomen. Quick check on the shoulder wound, which I manage without getting close enough to feel his body heat. A glance at the hand to make sure the splint is intact.
“You’re healing well.” I try my best to sound detached. “At this rate, you’ll be ready for discharge within the week.”
“And then what?”
