Chapter 6
639 Words
Ivan POV
I hate days off.
They crawl under my skin, slow and useless, leaving too much space for thoughts I don’t want. I was built for motion—for orders, for threat assessment, for being where I’m needed before anyone asks.
Sitting still feels like punishment.
Alexander doesn’t ask.
He orders.
“Three days,” he says, tone final. “You’re not leaving the estate unless it’s to eat or sleep.”
“I’m fine,” I reply.
“You’re injured,” he counters. “That’s not negotiable.”
So here I am.
Benched.
I change into clean clothes and head downstairs, restless already. The mansion feels different during the day—less sharp, less guarded. I don’t like it.
The living room stops me short.
Angelica is on the couch, her son lying against her chest, tiny fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. She’s humming softly, some melody from home, rocking him gently. The boy blinks up at her like she’s the whole world.
She looks up when she notices me.
“Ivan,” she says quietly, smiling. “Come sit.”
I hesitate.
This isn’t my place.
But she’s never treated me like I don’t belong anywhere, so I cross the room and sit in the chair opposite them. I keep my posture neutral, hands resting on my thighs, like I’m on standby.
The baby stares at me.
Hard.
“Don’t worry,” Angelica murmurs to him. “He looks scary, but he’s good.”
I huff softly. “I didn’t agree to that description.”
She smiles wider. “Too late.”
The baby makes a small sound—half laugh, half hiccup.
I feel something unfamiliar tighten in my chest.
Minutes pass in silence. Not uncomfortable. Just… quiet.
Angelica glances at my side. “You’re favoring your ribs.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” she says gently.
I shrug. “It heals.”
She studies me the way she always has—carefully, perceptive, like she sees what people don’t say.
“You’re terrible at resting,” she adds.
“Yes.”
She smiles like she expected nothing else.
After a while, the baby drifts to sleep. Angelica carefully adjusts him, then looks at me again—more serious now.
“Have you checked the wound since yesterday?” she asks.
“No.”
“Ivan.”
I meet her eyes. She doesn’t sound angry. Just firm.
“You need to go back to the clinic,” she says. “Let Olga look at it.”
There it is.
I stiffen slightly. “It’s unnecessary.”
She raises a brow. “You’re bleeding internally?”
“No.”
“You’re in pain?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s necessary.”
I exhale through my nose. “She’s busy.”
“She chose medicine,” Angelica replies calmly. “Busy is part of the job.”
I don’t argue further. Arguing with Angelica is pointless—Alexander learned that the hard way.
She softens then. “Please,” she adds. “For me.”
That word lands heavier than an order.
I stand. “Fine.”
She smiles, satisfied. “Good. And Ivan?”
“Yes?”
“Try not to scare her this time.”
I pause. “No promises.”
She laughs quietly as I leave.
On the walk to the clinic, my ribs sting more than before—or maybe I’m just paying attention now.
I tell myself this is routine. Medical necessity. Nothing more.
Still, as I reach for the door handle, an image surfaces uninvited—
Honey-colored hair pulled up.
Steady hands.
A voice that didn’t flinch.
I scowl faintly at myself and push the door open.
This is just a wound.
And I’m just getting it checked.
Nothing more
- Writer
