"I'm a soldier, Caterina. Careful doesn't really come with the territory," I say. "Especially not in my line of work."
"Well, tonight, it does," she says firmly. "Tonight, you are going to lie there and be still, and you are going to rest. And I am going to take care of you."
The idea is so foreign, so... domestic, that it takes me a moment to process. Take care of me? That's my job. That's what I do.
"You don't have to do that," I say.
"I know I don't have to," she says. "I want to."
She stands up, and I watch as she walks, completely unashamed of her nudity, across the room to the small table where the medical supplies are laid out. She moves with a natural grace, a confidence that is as alluring as it is unexpected.
She comes back with a small bottle and a fresh dressing.
"This is going to sting," she warns, her voice gentle.
She kneels on the bed beside me, and I watch as she carefully, efficiently, removes the soiled dressing.
My breath hisses through my teeth as the cool air hits the wound.
"It's not too bad," she says, her gaze fixed on my side. "Just a little strain. You were lucky."
"Tell that to my side," I grit out.
She smiles a little, then carefully cleans the area. The pain is sharp, but bearable. Her touch is light, her movements economical and sure. She knows what she's doing. Another surprise.
"You're good at this," I observe.
"My mother made sure all of us knew basic first aid," she says, not looking up. "She said it was a necessary skill in our family." There's a hint of something in her tone, something sad and wry.
"And your father?" I ask.
Her movements pause for a fraction of a second. "My father's lessons were... different."
I don't push. I can read between the lines. Her father taught her how to shoot. How to play poker. How to be a princess. Her mother taught her how to survive.
She finishes cleaning and carefully applies the fresh dressing, her touch gentle but firm. Then she stands up and goes to the dresser, pouring a glass of water.
She comes back and hands me the glass. "Drink this."
I do, my eyes never leaving her face. She is a study in contradictions. A siren and a caregiver. A mob princess and a trauma nurse. A woman who took my cock in her throat with a hungry enthusiasm and is now worrying about my damn stitches.
"Thank you," I say, my voice a little rough.
She takes the glass from me and sets it on the nightstand.
"I want you to take the rest of the medication," she says. "The full dose."
"No," I say, without hesitation.
Her expression firms. "Adrian, don't be an idiot. You're in pain. You need to rest."
"I can't be knocked out, Caterina. Not here. Not with you," I say. "My job is to keep you safe. I can't do that if I'm drooling in a drug-induced haze."
"You have a team of your own people outside," she argues.
"Who aren't in this room," I counter. "Who can't hear what's happening in this house. Who can't be here if someone decides to come through that door." I nod toward the locked door. "I need to be alert."
She looks at the door, a flicker of fear in her eyes. She knows I'm right. We are in a den of vipers, and while we were lost in each other, the danger has not gone away.
