“Bellini says the fever should break if the medicine keeps working,” I say. “Omar has the schedule. Two staff members assigned. No one enters without his approval or yours.”
Her eyes return to me.
Even half-asleep, she catches the important piece. “Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you would become unbearable if I didn’t.”
Her mouth almost moves.
Not a smile.
Too tired for that.
Close enough.
I carry her into the hall. Omar stands aside as we pass, and to his credit, he says nothing. His eyes move from Maya’s face to mine, then away again, as if he has decided survival depends on witnessing less.
Wise man.
Maya’s head rests against my shoulder for three steps before she notices and lifts it with visible effort. “I can walk.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then put me down.”
“No.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrow, but the effect is ruined by how badly she is fighting to keep them open. “You’re insufferable.”
“Frequently.”
The hall is dim, lit low for the night. Guards posted at each end straighten as we pass, then look away quickly. They know better than to stare. Not because Maya is asleep in my arms. Because she is Maya, and I have made enough corrections in this house and outside it for men to understand curiosity has limits.
Her body softens again despite her best efforts.
“I meant to stay awake,” she mutters.
“You failed.”
“I was watching him.”
“He is being watched.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
She is quiet for several steps.
Then, softer, “Thank you.”
