Page 119 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“I will.”

“No, you’ll go downstairs and start threatening people.”

“That is also useful.” He looks at me, then away.

I stare at him. “What is it?”

His face changes by a fraction.

“On paper, the Blacklist is dead. Men won’t stop using the word because we filed the right documents. Some will test it. Others will say Sergei’s old papers still leave questions. Council men can try to reopen your status.”

“Can they?”

“They can talk.” He moves his hand away.

“And you’re going to stop them.” My eyes move from his hand to his face. A frown sits there.

“Yes,” he says.

“How?”

His hand closes around mine, careful around the bandage. “They’re going to see you.”

My chest closes.

“Not tonight,” he says. “Rest. Tomorrow, I’ll take care of the rest.”

I want to ask what that means, but Maksim will say no more. I lie back against the pillow. The sheets are clean and warm, and his hand stays wrapped around mine until my eyes close.

When I wake, morning sits pale across the floor.

Beyond the windows, the sky looks washed out, and the trees bend hard in the wind. I lie still for a few seconds, listening to branches scrape faintly against the glass.

Then the door opens.

Maksim comes in with a tray balanced in one hand. His shirt is open at the throat, a fresh bandage pulls under the fabric at his side, and his gun sits where his hand can reach it.

“You brought breakfast?”

“I was told you eat more when you are annoyed.”

“That sounds like Mrs. Wentworth.”

“It was Lidiya.”

Loud mouth.

He sets the tray across my lap. Toast, eggs, fruit, tea, and a small bowl of porridge with cinnamon.

I pick up the spoon. “Are you watching me eat?”

“Yes.”

“Creepy.”

“And useful.” He leans down and pinches my nose.

I eat because he stands there, and because the low, firm pull in my body reminds me that I need to. When it comes again, my hand goes to my stomach and stays there.