“I can’t see shit, baby.” I sigh and reach for her hand. “Come up here.”
She shakes her head, but I pull her toward me. “Come lay next to me. It’s okay.”
She is reluctant at first, but then carefully climbs up to lay on the edge of the bed and snuggles herself to my side.
“Did you tell Lena what happened?”
I feel the tip of her finger press lightly on my chest, drawing the letters.
N-O
“Good.”
The door of the room opens, and Roman comes in. He watches us for a few moments, then approaches the bed.
“What’s the damage?” I ask.
“Nicked lung and internal bleeding. They patched you up. Doctor says you should be good as new in a month.”
“When can I go home?”
“In two weeks.”
I look up at him. “I’m not staying in a hospital for two weeks.”
“You will stay as long as they say you should stay.” Roman barks and points the handle of his cane at me. “And you will do exactly what they tell you to fucking do. That’s an order.”
“What about work?”
“I will take over until you are back. You are off the next two months.”
He can’t be serious. “Two months?”
“Shut the fuck up. You almost got killed,” he snarls. “If I catch you working sooner than that, I’m swapping you with Pavel, and you are getting the clubs. You got me, Mikhail?”
I grind my teeth. “Yes, Pakhan.”
“Perfect. We are expecting you two for dinner when you are better. And use your free time to take your wife on a honeymoon or something. You are not getting a two-month vacation again.” He turns to leave, then looks over his shoulder. “Sergei dropped by yesterday when he heard you got shot.”
I raise my eyebrows “Here? What for?”
“Yup. Stormed in, asked about you, told me to pass you a message, then left.”
“What message?”
“He wants you to text him the list of people who were involved in you getting shot so he can kill them. He said he’s free this weekend.”
I sigh and shake my head.
I reach out and brush my hand over Mikhail’s five-day stubble. It’s strange. I’ve only ever seen him clean-shaven. His scars are much less noticeable with facial hair. He looks different. I look up and find him watching me.
“You like it?” he asks.
I smile and brush my palm over his face again.
“Do you want me to leave it?”
He asks this casually, but he is watching carefully for my reaction. I know what he meant. He doesn’t like having facial hair, he told me so once. But if I say yes, he will leave it because he thinks I would prefer his scars hidden. He still doesn’t get it. I think he is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
“I like it.” I sign, and he nods, lowering the razor to the sink. “But I prefer when you are clean-shaven.”
His hand holding the razor stills.
“Sure?” he asks, and there is doubt in his eye.
I cup his face with my palms, tilt his head down, and kiss him. “I’m sure, Mikhail,” I whisper against his lips.
“Okay, baby.”
“Do you want me to do it?” I’ve never shaved a man before, but his right arm is in a sling because of his shoulder, and I’m not sure he can manage it only with his left hand. “I will be careful. You are going to probably cut yourself.”
Mikhail just watches me for a few seconds, then laughs. “It’s not like it would matter, baby.”
I narrow my eyes at him, take his chin between my fingers and squeeze lightly. “To me, it would matter.”
“Okay, okay.” He smiles, puts down the lid of the toilet, and slowly lowers himself to sit on it. “I’m all yours.”
“Exactly.” I nod, take the razor and the shaving cream from the sink, then proceed to get my husband back to his original handsome self.
After I am done, I turn to put the shaving supplies back when I hear the lock on the bathroom door behind me. I turn and find Mikhail smirking at me.
“No,” I mouth.
“Yes.”
“You got shot five days ago. Twice. We are not doing anything that would require a locked door.”
“Come here.”
“No.”
He reaches forward with his hand, hooks a finger onto the waistband of my jeans, and pulls me toward him until I’m standing between his legs. “Turn around.”
I sigh and obey.
“I love when you pretend you are docile.” He whispers in my ear and starts unbuttoning my jeans.