“I’ll be cleared to return to work today,” I add, turning finally to face him. “Occupational health signed off yesterday. Neurology this morning.”
His jaw firms, not tightening exactly, but locking into resolve. “Leo will drive you.”
“I don’t need?—”
“You will not be alone,” he says evenly.
The words are calm, but there’s no flexibility in them. I feel my shoulders draw back, and my posture tighten.
“I’m not an asset,” I reply.
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not.”
The concession unsettles me more than resistance would have. His dark eyes hold mine, intent without ownership. Assessing, not claiming.
“You’re a responsibility,” he continues. “One I intend to keep alive.”
Heat curls beneath my ribs, part irritation, part a feeling I refuse to acknowledge.
“I kept myself alive for thirty years before you entered my life,” I state.
“And nearly died the week I did,” he replies, without heat or accusation. Just fact.
The reality scrapes closer to the bone than I anticipate. I look away first.
He closes the distance, close enough that I feel the warmth of him before the movement itself. His fingers rise, firm but careful, guiding my chin upward until my eyes have nowhereelse to go. His thumb traces the faint line of healing sutures along my cheek. The touch is light, almost clinical, and somehow more disarming for it. I hold still, my breath shallow, aware of how much attention he gives to what was nearly taken from me.
I pull back and break the space between us before it can turn into something else entirely.
The hospital feels like a return to normalcy, or as close as I can get these days. This entire week, Leo has stayed in the waiting room as promised so that I can pretend I'm not being watched. My patients are the same. Grateful, skeptical, and desperate. I lose myself in charts, vital signs, and the familiar rhythm of medicine.
It's almost enough to forget about cryptic texts and dangerous men. I put down my sandwich and read the messages again.
Did he tell you his secrets?
What name did he say?
Some secrets should stay buried.
The fine hairs along the back of my neck lift in warning. These messages have been arriving all week, always from an unknown number, always circling the same question without ever asking it outright. I don’t tell Ethan. And I don’t tell Kiren. Because if Kiren knows someone is reaching for me this deliberately, hewon’t just watch more closely. He’ll close the door and throw away the key.
“You seem tense,” Lila observes. She's perched on the desk in the break room, studying me with the intensity usually reserved for diagnosing rare conditions.
“I'm fine.” I don't look up from my phone.
“You're wearing the same scrubs you wore yesterday.”
I glance down. She's right. “Laundry day got away from me.”
“Rowan.” She hops off the desk, easing into the chair next to mine. “What's going on? You've been weird since the accident. And don't tell me you're fine because I know you, and fine is not what you are.”
I consider telling her everything. About Alexei, about Kiren, about living in a cage made of silk and fear. But how do I explain any of that without sounding insane?
“It's been a hard couple of weeks,” I say. “The accident shook me up more than I expected.”
“That's understandable.” She squeezes my shoulder. “But you know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”
The concern in her voice makes me feel guilty. Lila is one of the few people I trust completely. She's brilliant, loyal, and doesn't take anyone's garbage.
