"At least for today," she adds. Her voice is quieter now. "Please."
Please.
That single word costs her something. I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way she won't quite meet my eyes. Marina Reeves doesn't ask for things. She demands. She fights. She builds walls so high you'd need a helicopter to see over them.
She doesn't say please.
Not to me.
I nod slowly. "I can manage that."
The relief that flickers across her face is gone almost before I can register it. She turns and leaves the room without another word, her footsteps quick on the hardwood.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
The movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my side, but it's manageable now. Barely. I ease myself back against the pillows, taking the pressure off the wound, and let my eyes drift around the room.
Her bedroom.
Small. Clean. Organized in a way that speaks to control rather than preference. White sheets on the bed. A nightstand with a lamp. Closet door slightly ajar.
No photos on the walls. No personal touches except for a single plant on the windowsill, something green.
The room of someone who's ready to leave at a moment's notice.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Marina reappears in the doorway holding an empty plastic bottle. She crosses to the bed and sets it on the nightstand without ceremony.
"There." Her voice is clipped. Like she's a nurse dealing with a difficult patient rather than a woman who just spent the night keeping a man she hates alive.
"Thank you."
"Are you hungry?"
The thought of food makes my stomach turn. "No."
She nods like she expected that answer. Disappears again.
I close my eyes. Count my breaths. Try to catalogue the pain—where it's sharpest, where it's dull, what movements make it worse. Information I'll need if things go sideways and I have to move fast.
The mattress dips slightly.
I open my eyes to find Marina perched on the edge of the bed, a bottle of water in her hand. She holds it out to me.
"You need to drink. A lot." Her tone brooks no argument. "Now that you're awake, you should get as much water in you as possible before you fall asleep again."
I take the bottle. Our fingers don't touch. She's careful about that.
"In two hours, I'll bring you more pills." She stands, putting distance between us.
I unscrew the cap. Take a long drink.
Marina watches me.
I watch her back.
I've never been good at talking. Words are tools I use for work—negotiation, intimidation, the occasional charm offensive when the situation calls for it.
