Silence stretches between them. Jason watches his back. Calculating. Because hiding records is one thing.
Rewriting them—is another. And this? This doesn't protect her. It controls her.
Jason exhales slowly, gaze lowering for a fraction of a second before he follows.
One thought lingering, sharp and unresolved—How far is he willing to go… and when did that line stop mattering?
He stops. Turns. His gaze settles on the closed door of the private suite—the entire fourth floor. His hospital. His medicine. His world.
Silence stretches. If it were anyone else—this would be a problem. But this is Ace. Jason's eyes narrow slightly. No… not a problem. A shift.
"She's not his weakness," he murmurs under his breath. A pause. "She's the catalyst."
A slow smile forms—faint, deliberate. Because Mohamad isn't breaking. He's changing. And whatever he becomes next—Jason's gaze flicks once more to the door—will start with her.
###
Voices murmur in the background, muffled and indistinct, as though coming from a room far away. My eyelids are heavy, resisting my feeble attempts to open them, as if they have been glued shut. I try to move, but a deep, searing pain lances through my abdomen, shooting outwards like a bolt of lightning, making me gasp. The sound startles me, echoing in the silence of my mind, and with it comes the first real sense of my body—solid, aching, and utterly foreign. My skin feels too tight, stretches over a frame that doesn't seem to belong to me. Each breath is shallow and tentative, every inhalation sending a dull ache rippling through my chest.
After what feels like an eternity, I manage to pry my eyes open. The world is a blur of white and gray, lights too bright and shapes too indistinct to make sense of. I blink slowly, trying to focus, trying to remember where I am and why everything hurts so much.
The memory crashes into me like the car had. The screech of tires, Mr. Silence, the violent impact, the sensation of being flung through the air, weightless and helpless. Then nothing. Nothing until now.
I try to lift my hand as it brushes against the soft fabric of the blanket covering me. The effort leaves me weak, my arm falling but a warmth catches my hand. Mr. Silence's familiar large strong hand has never felt gentler as it cradles my hand back onto the bed. When his hand carefully slides away, my fingers confirm the diamond-wrapped silver ring he wears on his middle finger.
I can feel the bandages tight around my middle, the unfamiliar tug and pull of stitches beneath my skin. My mouth is dry, my throat parched as if I've swallowed sandpaper. My vision is blurry but I can picture him as he stands commandingly over me. A soft touch on my chin parts my lips. Something cold comes into my mouth. Ice.
A soft beeping reaches my ears, steady and rhythmic, in time with the pulse in my head. A few blurry figures move about the room. I force my eyes to focus on the source of the sound—but Mr. Silence's face comes into view instead. He leans down and says in a soft voice, "You're in the hospital. I'm here. Go back to sleep." Those words have magic, my eyelids become too heavy to stay open. The reassuring look on his beautiful face fades into blackness.
Warm layers of spice mixed with deep, rich amber travel into my nose before I open my eyes. Mr. Silence is sleeping next to me on his side. His left arm pillows my neck below the pillow beneath my head. His other arm comes around my front. I can't move, I feel numb. Other than the lights coming from the various machines and their sound, it's quiet and dark. I scan the room but can't locate the door.
The large room and bed disorient me. If I'm in the hospital, then I probably pushed him out of the way in time. Good. But why is he sleeping here? The room is invaded by his sudden, but gradually increasing, louder snoring. It reaches a certain note and keeps it consistently at that pitch. I wonder if it's daytime or night and how long I've been here. I listen until his snoring soothes me back to sleep.
I'm floating in and out of consciousness. The strong painkiller they pump into me makes me feel mostly numb. Mr. Silence seems to always be here. Sometimes I find myself in his arms, sometimes he's sleeping next to me, sometimes I feel his caring touches, and other times I hear his voice giving orders. All the while, I find it difficult to open my eyes.
"Give her more," Mr. Silence orders in his authoritative tone.
"Yes, Sir," a male voice answers like a soldier obeying a command. A door opens and closes. Footsteps approach.
"Sir, this is Dr. Victoria Fleming, the—" the man's voice suddenly stops. After a brief moment, they are gone from the room. Did Mr. Silence leave with—His fingers caress my cheek. Fourteen. I have counted the number of times I have felt this exact touch. If it's once a day, then have I been here two weeks? It can't be. Why can't I stay awake long enough to...
I'm awaken by his touch again. His hand lifts my head up while he slides his left arm under me so I can be propped up against him. I can barely open my eyes when his thumb gently opens my mouth and a straw is placed between my lips. "Drink," he murmurs in my ear. I'm not sure what I'm drinking. Everything tastes bland. I feel weak.
###
Jason stands by the door, watching. Mohamad is asleep beside her, one arm resting loosely across her waist. His breathing is steady, almost quiet enough to be mistaken for the machines surrounding them. It's a strange contrast—one Jason still hasn't gotten used to. In sixteen years, he has never seen Mohamad look like this. Not once. Not until her.
They arrived from airport less than fifteen minutes ago. Mohamad didn't make it any further than the bed.
Jason studies his face for a moment longer. The expression is unmistakable. Peaceful. Not guarded. Not alert. Just… at ease. It's foreign on him.
He lowers his gaze to the report in his hand. Her recovery is ahead of schedule. Her immune system is responding well, and there are no signs of rejection. Not surprising. Mohamad personally screened for compatibility and refused to accept anything below ninety percent. With those conditions met, her discharge should be approved soon.
Jason exhales quietly. Mohamad won't allow it. His attention shifts back to the bed. To the way Mohamad's hand remains where it is, even in sleep. Unconscious. Instinctive. Possessive. He has barely left her side in the past month. When he does, it's brief—never more than two days—and when he returns, it's always the same. Back in this room. Back at her side. Like nothing else exists beyond it.
Jason glances toward the nurses stationed along the wall. Four assigned. One required to be present at all times.
None of them are doing their jobs. Not when Mohamad is here. He handles everything himself. Feeding her. Cleaning her. Adjusting her blankets. Changing her socks. Tasks that should be delegated—tasks he would normally consider beneath his attention—he refuses to relinquish.
Jason watches in silence, piecing it together. This isn't inefficiency. It's preference. A thought crosses his mind, brief and unwelcome. Does he prefer her like this? Still. Dependent. Within reach.
Jason's gaze shifts to the IV line, then to the medication chart. Pain management. Sedatives. Carefully regulated. Nothing excessive. Nothing medically unjustifiable. But consistent. Deliberate.
His jaw tightens slightly. He looks back at Mohamad, still asleep, still at peace in a way that doesn't exist anywhere else.
Jason exhales slowly. This isn't just care. And it isn't just control. It's something else. Something quieter.
More dangerous. Mohamad doesn't want her in pain. Not even a little. Jason lowers his gaze again, but the thought lingers. For the first time—Jason isn't sure if she's recovering. Or if she's being kept exactly where he wants her.