The mansion feels unnaturally quiet the moment Ronan leaves.

Not peaceful—wrong.

You lie on your side in the middle of the massive bed, silk sheets cool against your skin, your leg heavy beneath the cast that runs from knee to ankle. The doctors had been clear. Rest. No pressure. No movement without help. Ronan had been clearer.

“Don’t move without me,” he’d said earlier, fastening a blanket around you like armor. “If I come back and you are on your feet, I will lock this entire house down.”

He hadn’t been joking.

But an hour later, boredom wins over obedience.

You stare at the ceiling until the silence becomes unbearable. The mansion feels like a cage when he isn’t here—too big, too quiet, too controlled.

So you move.

Slowly.

Carefully.

You push yourself upright, fingers gripping the headboard, ignoring the dull ache in your leg. The cast is heavy, awkward. Your foot barely touches the floor at first. You wobble, catch yourself on the nightstand, breathe through the pain.

It takes effort, but you stand.

Victory tastes small and reckless.

You limp down the hallway, leaning against marble walls, ignoring the way the staff watches with alarmed eyes. One maid rushes forward.

“Miss, please—Mr. Markov said—”

“I’m fine,” you insist gently, smiling at her. “I just needed to move a little.”

They hesitate.

They shouldn’t have.

By the time Ronan returns, you’ve been upright for nearly an hour, wandering through the conservatory, sitting briefly on a velvet chaise, then standing again because staying still feels worse than pain.

You’re laughing softly with one of the maids when the front doors slam.

The sound echoes through the mansion like a gunshot.

Every staff member freezes.

You feel him before you see him.

Ronan Markov strides into the hall like a storm given human form—coat still on, jaw rigid, eyes dark with fury that has nothing to do with business. Kolya stands a step behind him, expression grim.

Ronan’s gaze locks onto you instantly.

Standing.

On your injured leg.

The air shifts.

“Everyone out,” he says quietly.

No one hesitates.

Within seconds, the hall empties, leaving only you, him, and the echo of marble floors.

He crosses the distance in long strides, stopping in front of you. His hands come up—not to touch, but to hover, like he’s fighting the instinct to grab you.

“How long,” he asks softly, “have you been standing?”

You swallow. “Ronan, I’m not made of glass.”

His eyes flick to your cast, then back to your face. Something violent and protective coils in his expression.

“You disobeyed me,” he says.

“And the doctors,” you add lightly, trying to soften it.

That doesn’t help.

He exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “I left you for one meeting. One hour. And they let you walk around like nothing happened.”

You glance toward the hallway where the staff fled. “It’s not their fault.”

“It is absolutely their fault,” Ronan snaps, voice rising for the first time. Then he reins it in instantly, turning back to you, anger redirecting inward.

His hands finally land on you—firm, careful—lifting you effortlessly like you weigh nothing. You protest instinctively, but he doesn’t listen.

He carries you down the hallway, your cast brushing his suit jacket.

“Ronan,” you murmur. “I’m bored. I can’t stay in bed forever.”

“You can,” he replies flatly. “And you will.”

He sets you down on the bed, kneeling in front of you instead of leaving. His hands move to your cast, inspecting it like he’s looking for cracks, damage, proof you’ve hurt yourself further.

“You were attacked because I allowed you to be near that event,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Ronan—”

“I miscalculated,” he continues, voice low and dangerous. “That does not happen again.”

His hand slides up to your knee, then your thigh, grounding himself.

“You are not bored,” he murmurs. “You are reckless.”

You tilt your head. “You married reckless.”

A flicker of something almost like a smile crosses his face, gone instantly.