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Lorenzo shakes his head. “You’re so fucked.”

“If I want your medical opinion, I’ll ask,” Zevran says icily.

Lorenzo looks up at me, malicious amusement gleaming in his eyes. “Ask me how I know.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Because doll-eyed blondes are tricksy little vixens who wrap men around their little fingers. I should know. We married one.” Lorenzo stands up, snapping off his black gloves and tossing them in the trash. “Use the guest room upstairs if you want, Komarov. No charge. Your eyes are practically falling out of your head.”

Zevran mutters a dark Russian curse under his breath, and then, before I can blink, he reaches down and scoops me straight off the metal table. One arm slides under my knees, the other supports my back, and he carries me toward the stairs as if I weigh no more than a feather. My fresh white cast rests safely against my stomach, and my head lolls against his broad shoulder.

“I can walk,” I mumble into his neck.

“You absolutely cannot.”

I consider arguing, but his chest is so warm, and he smells heavenly. I’ve already touched his entire torso today, so I figure being carried in his arms is totally fine.

“What did he mean by we married a tricksy blonde?”

Zevran’s chest rumbles against my cheek as he climbs the stairs. “Lorenzo’s wife has four husbands, including him. I have no idea how those lunatics make it work, but they do. The four of them were pretty messed up before they found her. Scava doesn’t talk about it.”

Four husbands. Four men like Lorenzo. I wonder how on earth she survives them, and if it’s even possible to be happy like that. One husband was more than enough to ruin my life.

The room Zevran carries me into is dim and cool, dominated by a large king-size bed and heavy blackout curtains. He lays me down on the mattress with painstaking care.

“I need a few hours of sleep,” he says, unholstering his gun and placing it on the dresser across the room. “I can’t drive us safely if I’m running on zero sleep. Close your eyes and rest until the drugs wear off.”

I nod heavily. I am completely pain-free for the first time in nearly two weeks, and my eyelids feel like lead.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the handcuffs. He sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“Again?” I murmur, hating the sight of the cold metal.

“Scava has attack dogs on the perimeter,” he says matter-of-factly, clicking one cuff around my uninjured right wrist and the other around his own left. “I don’t trust you not to wander off while I’m unconscious. This is for your protection.”

I don’t bother arguing.

He kicks off his leather shoes, pulls the heavy comforter over us both, and closes his eyes.

I lie beside him in the dim light, watching his face as the harsh tension slowly drains from his jaw. Without the deadly scowl, he looks younger. Sweeter.

I watch the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest until my own eyes slip shut, pulled under by the heavy, sweet darkness of sleep.

When I wake, the light through the curtains has turned amber and long.

I lie still for a moment, waiting for the drug fog to clear as I remember where I am. In bed in a home that’s more like a compound, belonging to a mafia “doctor” with attack dogs and a wife he shares with three other men. I lift my arm and examine the cast, marveling that my wrist doesn’t throb even though the drugs have worn off. It feels like a miracle.

I turn my head on the pillow.

Zevran is still asleep beside me. Deeply, completely out, his broad chest rising and falling slowly, his lips parted.

I watch him for longer than I mean to. His ruthless severity has softened, and he’s extraordinarily handsome in the amber light, all strong lines and dark ink and those dark lashes fanned against his cheek.

Then I remember my hands wandering over his bare chest as I told him he was beautiful, and icy horror floods my veins.

I do not find this man attractive. He’s a cold-blooded killer, and he must be at least fifteen years older than me.

The drugs. That’s all it was.