Chapter 8

It happened on the stairs.

I was descending from my room, hand trailing along the banister, lost in thought about the wedding that was now three weeks away.

My foot caught on the hem of my dress.

I pitched forward.

My ankle twisted violently as I tried to catch myself. Pain exploded up my leg.

I stumbled, grabbing for the railing, but my fingers slipped.

I was falling.

Then a hand caught my arm.

Volkov.

He'd been three steps behind me. He pulled me back, steadying me against the railing.

"Careful."

I tried to put weight on my foot.

Pain shot through my ankle like lightning. My leg buckled.

Volkov caught me before I could fall again.

"Your ankle?"

I nodded, tears burning behind my eyes. Not from the pain. From the humiliation. From the fear of what this meant.

Weakness. Damage. Deviation from protocol.

Volkov's jaw tightened. He looked down the long staircase, then back at me.

Then, without warning, he bent and scooped me into his arms.

I gasped, every muscle tensing.

He carried me like I weighed nothing. One arm beneath my knees, the other supporting my back.

"Don't move," he said quietly.

I froze, barely breathing.

He descended the stairs with measured, careful steps. His grip was firm but not painful. Clinical. Efficient.

But I could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Controlled.

And the heat of him. The solid strength.

I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, not daring to look at his face.

When we reached the bottom, he didn't put me down. He carried me through the hallway toward the sitting room.

"Volkov?" Father's voice, sharp with alarm. "What happened?"

Father appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting instantly to concern.

"She fell," Volkov said. "Injured her ankle."

Father rushed over, his face a mask of worry. "Luna! Tesoro mio, are you alright?"

He reached out, touching my cheek with trembling fingers.

"My poor girl. My precious girl." His voice was thick with emotion. "Volkov, put her on the sofa. Carefully."

Volkov lowered me onto the velvet sofa. The loss of his warmth left me strangely cold.

Father knelt beside me, taking my hand in both of his. "Does it hurt terribly? Should I call a doctor?"

His performance was flawless. The doting, terrified father.

I shook my head quickly. No doctor.

"Are you sure?" Father's eyes searched mine. "I can't bear to see you in pain."

Volkov stepped back, watching silently.

"Let me see," Father said, reaching for my ankle.

"I'll handle it." Volkov's voice cut through the air.

Father looked up, surprised.

"Medical assessment is part of my protocol," Volkov continued. "With your permission, Don Vitiello."

Father hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. Whatever is necessary."

He stood and moved aside, still hovering nearby.

Volkov knelt in front of me. His hands were steady as he carefully removed my shoe.

I flinched when his fingers touched my ankle.

"Swelling," he said quietly. "Possibly sprained. Not broken."

He examined it with clinical precision, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Ice. Elevation. Compression." He looked up at Father. "She'll need to stay off it for a few days."

"Of course, of course." Father nodded vigorously. "Whatever she needs. Luna, you must rest. No more stairs until you're healed."

He turned to one of the hovering staff. "Bring ice. And pillows. Quickly."

Volkov retrieved a cushion from the nearby chair and carefully positioned it beneath my ankle, elevating it.

His movements were efficient. Professional.

But when his fingers brushed my skin, something shifted in his expression. Just for a heartbeat.

Then it was gone.

The staff returned with ice wrapped in a towel. Volkov took it and placed it gently against my swollen ankle.

"Keep this on for twenty minutes. Repeat every two hours."

I nodded.

Father sat beside me, taking my hand again. "You scared me, cara. You must be more careful."

His grip was just slightly too tight.

"She will remain on this floor," Volkov said. "I'll have a room prepared for her. No stairs until I clear her."

Father's smile didn't waver. "Excellent idea. Whatever keeps my daughter safe."

He kissed my forehead. "Rest now, my angel. I'll have them bring you something to eat."

Then he stood and left, still playing the concerned father perfectly.

The moment he was gone, the warmth drained from the room.

Volkov adjusted the ice pack, checking the swelling.

"You'll be more vulnerable with limited mobility," he said quietly. "Stay where I can see you. No exceptions."

It wasn't concern in his voice. Just fact.

But his hands on my ankle were careful. Precise.

"Understood?"

I nodded.

He stood and took his position by the door.

Back to the silent sentinel.

But I could still feel where he'd touched me. Where he'd carried me.

And for the first time since he'd arrived, I wondered if the cold, controlled bodyguard was as unaffected as he pretended to be.