He filled the doorway the way he filled every room—with the cold, suffocating presence of a man born to command. His expression was taut and grim, jaw set like marble, eyes the color of a winter storm. But when he saw me—covered in bandages, IV drip threading into my arm, face hollow from a night of unmedicated hell—he paused.
Something flickered across his features.
Surprise, perhaps.
Or a slight softening, so brief I might have imagined it.
His lips parted.
Still, no words came.
Of course not. The selective mutism that had plagued him since Massima's departure three years ago hadn't lifted for his wife. It never had. I was not the woman who held the key to his voice.
He grabbed a notepad and pen from the bedside table—the same way he'd communicated with me throughout our entire blood-bound union—and scrawled a few lines in his sharp, elegant hand.
"I didn't know you were hurt this badly last night. I'll contact specialists through our European network for your hand."
I let out a cold laugh.
The sound scraped against my throat like broken glass.
"No need." My voice was steady, even as something inside me crumbled. "I'll fix my own hand myself."