Page 210 of Sexting His Assistant

I reach for the cup on the side table and bring the straw to her mouth. “Small sip.”

She drinks a little, then turns her face away. “My head hurts,” she mumbles.

“Mirov says you have a concussion,” I say. “The scan was clear for anything worse, but you need observation.”

She blinks at me. “Mirov is here?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Of course he is,” she says.

It sounds like her, faintly, and the relief nearly takes my knees out.

I sit back down because standing suddenly feels dangerous.

She looks at me properly for the first time, taking in my cut shirt, the new dressing under my jacket, the blood at my cuff.

“You’re hurt,” she says.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

She frowns. “Don’t do that.”

I say, “My shoulder reopened. Mirov fixed it. It’s not important.”

“It’s a little important,” she says.

“Not compared to your head,” I say.

She closes her eyes again, then opens them after a few seconds. “Did you find who did it?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Is he alive?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

Her eyes search mine. “Barely?”

“Alive enough to answer questions,” I say.

She absorbs that with a faint shiver.

I hate that I caused the shiver even though she asked.

“I should have called you,” she says.

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “The door was open. I knew something was wrong. I still went in.”

“You were worried about Misha,” I say.

“That doesn’t make it smart,” she says.

“No,” I say. “It makes it human.”

Her face softens a little at that.