Page 69 of Sexting His Assistant

“Not saying things in front of me.”

Luka’s gaze returns to mine. Then he looks away, down at the tray, and tries to eat.

His left shoulder is bandaged and useless. His right hand holds the spoon, but the movement pulls across his chest every time he leans forward. He hides the pain well. Too well. His face barely changes, but I see the slight pause after each motion, the controlled breath, the tiny adjustment of his grip.

He manages one spoonful. Barely.

The second spills back into the bowl.

He stares at it like it has betrayed him.

I press my lips together. Don’t laugh, Nina.

Don’t laugh at the injured Pakhan struggling with soup.

Unfortunately, my face is not as loyal as it should be.

His eyes lift. “Careful.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

“You looked pleased.”

“I’m discovering new things about you.”

“Such as?”

“That you can intimidate half of the world but cannot operate broth under medical supervision.”

His expression darkens.

It should scare me. It almost does.

But the problem with Luka injured, half-dressed, and annoyed under a blanket is that he is still Luka, only now there’s something painfully human underneath the danger. Something I should not find charming. Something that makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the garage.

He tries again.

This time his hand is steady, but the angle makes his shoulder pull. His jaw locks.

I’m across the room before I decide to move. “Stop,” I say.

“I can feed myself.”

“Apparently not elegantly.”

“Nina.”

“No. You are going to either spill hot broth on yourself or rip your stitches open out of masculine pride, and then Doctor Mirov will blame me because I was the only sensible person present.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I didn’t ask what you needed.”

He looks up at me.