Chapter 66: But none of them is my wife

"Long enough," Viktor said, "to know my wife promised the doctors she’d take care of me." His voice was low, scratchy with sleep, but there was nothing weak in the way his eyes tracked her across the room. "I’ve been hurt a lot, you know."

"You’re still delirious," Sienna said flatly, crossing her arms. "Just go back to sleep."

"It’s sin," he said instead, ignoring the suggestion entirely, shifting against the pillows with a wince that looked at least partly genuine. "I need help washing up." A pause, deliberate, his eyes finding hers with an expression that was far too innocent to be trusted. "Mind giving your husband a hand?"

"You have ten guards," Sienna shot back without missing a beat. "Have one of them help you."

"Sure," Viktor said, entirely too pleased with himself, "but none of them is my wife."

"I am not actually your..."

"You said you’d take care of me." His voice dropped, quieter now, and something in it shifted, less teasing, more deliberate, the kind of tone that knew exactly how to make an exit harder to find. "You promised. Remember?"

Sienna stared at him, caught between the urge to argue and the inconvenient truth that she had said something to that effect, back when his blood had still been warm under her hands, and she would’ve promised him anything to keep him breathing.

She exhaled through her nose, long and put-upon. "Fine. Just this once."

Helping him to the bathroom took longer than it should have, mostly because Viktor insisted on leaning into her more than the wound strictly required, his arm slung heavy across her shoulders, his weight settling against her side like he had every intention of making this last.

The bandage at his ribs stood stark white against his skin, the only visible concession to the fact that he’d nearly died less than a day ago.

Everything else about him the breadth of his shoulders, the unhurried ease in how he moved despite the pain, the quiet, contained strength in him even now refused to look anything close to fragile.

Sienna kept her eyes carefully forward, jaw tight, focused on the door, the tile, the careful mechanics of not letting him fall.

This is absurd, she thought, feeling the heat climb up the back of her neck despite every effort to will it away. He is the worst person I have ever met.

He shoots people in suits. He drinks wine that costs human lives. He is currently using a gunshot wound as an elaborate excuse to make me touch him, and somehow it’s working.

She risked a glance sideways, just once, just briefly, and immediately regretted it. The low light in the bathroom did him no favors in the way of making this easier; if anything it carved his features into something sharper, more deliberate, every line of him looking like it had been built specifically to be looked at.

God, it’s not fair, she thought, dragging her eyes determinedly back to the running water. How exactly am I supposed to resist that kind of no. No. Absolutely not. Focus, Sienna. He is the enemy. The enemy does not get to have a body like that. It’s against the rules. There should be rules.

She became aware, a beat too late, that she’d been staring again.

Viktor’s mouth curved, slow and knowing, entirely too satisfied with himself for a man one wrong movement away from reopening a bullet wound.

"You see something you like, wifey?"

"I see a man who talks too much for someone who claims to be dying," Sienna said, far too fast, color flooding her face despite her best efforts to sound unaffected.

"Mm." Viktor leaned a fraction closer, just enough to make the air between them feel smaller than it had a second ago. "That’s not a no."

"Get in the shower, Viktor."

"Only if you admit.."

"Get in the shower."

He laughed, low, rough, clearly pleased with the exact amount of chaos he’d managed to cause from a sickbed and finally, mercifully, let her go.

Sienna stepped back the moment she was able, putting as much distance between them as the small room allowed, willing her pulse to slow down, willing the heat in her face to take the hint and leave.

One day, she told herself, with considerably less conviction than the last hundred times she’d had this exact thought, I am going to stop letting him win.

Today, apparently, was not that day. The steam in the en-suite bathroom had long since thinned, leaving only a damp, heavy chill that made the ache in Viktor’s right side fiercely. He gripped the edge of the porcelain sink, knuckles white, forcing his breath out in a slow, ragged exhale.

Lifting his right arm was an exercise in pure agony. He managed to bring the wet washcloth up to his collarbone, but as he tried to drag it across his chest, a sharp, white-hot pull in his stitches caught him off guard.

A sharp pain shot through his side.

"Damn it." The washcloth slipped from his hand and landed in the sink. Before he could try again, the bathroom door opened. Sienna stepped inside, fully dressed, carrying a fresh towel.

Her eyes immediately found him. For a moment, concern flashed across her face. "You’re overdoing it."

"I’m trying to wash myself."

"And failing." Viktor shot her a look. She ignored it and walked over.

"Turn around." His eyebrow rose. "Ordering me around now?"

"Turn around, Viktor." A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he obeyed.

Sienna dipped the cloth into warm water before gently running it across his shoulders. The movement was careful. Patient. Far gentler than her sharp tongue ever suggested.

Viktor closed his eyes briefly. Not because of the relief. Because of her. The warmth of her touch.. She didn’t say a word. When her hand met his skin, the contrast was sharp. Her touch was tentative, impossibly soft against the hard, unyielding planes of his chest. She washed him slowly, avoiding the thick white bandage binding his side.

But while her hands were focused on the task, Viktor’s mind was entirely elsewhere.