“Sit. Down.” He’s already sitting, so I point at the headboard, channeling every ounce of authority I can muster while wearing nothing but a towel.
For a moment, I think he’ll refuse.
Then something shifts in his expression, and he maneuvers himself across the bed until his back is resting against the headboard.
His movements are careful, controlled, but I see the pain flash across his face.
I move to the bathroom and gather supplies.
First aid kit from under the sink, clean washcloths, and antiseptic. My hands shake slightly as I carry everything back to the bedroom.
Mikhail watches me approach, his green eyes tracking my every movement.
I set the supplies on the nightstand and sit on the side of the bed, positioning myself beside him so I can reach the wounds on his chest.
“This is going to sting,” I warn, dampening a washcloth with antiseptic.
“I can handle it.”
I press the cloth to the cut on his ribs, and his entire body tenses.
A muscle jumps in his jaw, but he doesn’t make a sound. I clean the wound as gently as I can, watching dried blood wash away to reveal torn skin beneath.
“What happened?” I ask again, softer this time.
“Business.” His voice is clipped. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“You’re covered in cuts and bruises. That’s not nothing.” I move to another wound, this one on his shoulder. “Did someone attack you?”
“It’s handled.”
Frustration bubbles up in my chest. “Why won’t you tell me anything? I’m your wife, remember? You made sure of that.”
His hand shoots out and catches my wrist, stopping my ministrations.
His grip is firm but not painful.
Then he suddenly lets my hand drop without a word.
I stand and turn toward the closet, needing to get dressed, needing to escape this suffocating room.
I hear him stand, hear his footsteps crossing the room.
Then his hands are on my shoulders, turning me to face him.
This close, I can see every cut, every bruise, can see the exhaustion etched into his features.
“Thank you for trying to help me,” he says quietly. “I’m not used to that.”
The vulnerability in his voice undoes me.
I set down the dress and return to the bed, gesturing for him to sit.
He does, and I resume cleaning his wounds without another word.
We fall into a rhythm.
I clean, he endures.
