bChapter /bb322 /b

Jade’s POV:

:.

The next morning, I drifted in and out of consciousness, fighting through a fog of pain medication and fever. Vague sounds filtered through my haze–hushed footsteps, the creak of the door, muffled voices.

When I finally forced my eyes open, I caught Ethan walking into the room with a bundled nket in his arms. Through the wide open door behind him, a small boy peered in, his dirt–smudged face lighting up when he spotted me on the bed.

“Your wife is very beautiful,” the boy said in Amharic, his voice filled with innocent wonder.

Ethan nodded. “Yes, she is.”

The boy opened his mouth to say something else, but Ethan quickly shut the door. When he turned around, he froze, finding me fully awake and watching him.

“You’re up,” he said, looking like he’d been caught stealing. This time, though, he recovered faster than before. With casual confidence, he pulled a nket from a stic bag. “I got you a new nket.”

“Don’t take risks like that again,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

A poor kid buying new nkets in a slum would draw unwanted attention. We’d survived this long by staying invisible.

“I know,” Ethan replied, his expression serious. “It won’t happen again.”

He carefully swapped the thin, worn nket I’d been using with the new one, then poured water into a cup and helped me drink. The cool liquid soothed my parched throat, and I sank back against the pillow, exhausted from even that small effort.

Later that day, the smell of beef broth filled our tiny room. Ethan had somehow procured meat—a luxury in this neighborhood–and was cooking it over a small portable burner in the corner.

I watched him through half–closed eyes, noting the careful way he stirred the pot despite his bandaged hand.

Suddenly, voices and footsteps crowded outside our door. Ethan immediately moved to position himself behind it, hand reaching for his concealed weapon.

Our shelter was a small structure made of mud bricks and stones, with a rickety wooden door. Ethan peered through a crack at the top of the door to see outside. After a moment, his shoulders rxed.

“It’s just some local kids,” he said, returning to the pot. “The smell of the beef broth attracted them.”

I nodded, understanding the implications. In a ce where people struggled to eat once a day, the aroma of meat cooking would be irresistibleb. /b

“We should leave as soon as you can walk,” Ethan said,dling soup into a chipped bowl.

I didn’t argue. We were painfully conspicuous here, even with Ethan’s attempts to blend in. His designer clothes might be dirty and

10:34 Fri, bOct /bb3 /bM…

wrinkled now, but everything about him–his posture, his movements, the very way he existed in space–screamed that he didn’t belong.

That night, my fever spiked again. Through the burning haze, I felt Ethan’s cool hands on my face, heard him curse under his breath. He boiled water, soaking cloths to ce on my forehead and neck.

“I need to clean you up,” he said, voice tense with worry. “Your temperature’s too high.”

I nodded weakly, unable to speak through the chills wracking my body.

Ethan approached with a basin of warm water and clean rags. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently pulled back the nket. His fingers moved to the buttons of the thin shirt I wore, unfastening the first one.

“How many times have you seen me?” I asked suddenly.

His fingers froze on the second button. He looked up, meeting my eyes with confusion. “What?”

I held his gaze steadily. “Do you like what you see?”

Ethan swallowed hard, his expression caught between difort and something else entirely. His professional mask slipped for a

moment.

“I… that’s not-” he started, then cleared his throat. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“So you don’t?” I pushed, my voice deceptively light despite the fever burning through me.

“That’s not what I meant,” he replied quickly, almost defensively.

I raised an eyebrow. “Then what did you mean?”

Ethanposed himself. “In those situations, having any thoughts beyond keeping you alive would have been… inappropriate.”

“And now?” I challenged.

His eyes briefly dropped to where his fingers still held my shirt button, then back to my face. “I was asking for your permission.”

“I’m not refusing,” I said, turning my face away from him. “Continue.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ethan resumed his task. I could feel the tension radiating from him as he carefully unbuttoned my shirt. The material parted to reveal my chest, the deep stab wounds on my shoulder stark against my pale skin. I couldn’t wear a bra with the shoulder injury, and I heard his breath catch slightly.

The air between us became charged with something neither of bus /backnowledged. Ethan worked methodically, cleaning my skin with gentle, careful strokes. His hands never strayed, his movements clinical despite the intimacy of the situation.

When he finished, I noticed my skin had taken on a pinkish hue that wasn’t entirely due to the fever. My temperature had risen, though not from infection this time.

As he pulled the nket back over me, Ethan leaned down and pressed his lips gently against the side of my neck.

b10:34 /bbFri/bb, /bbOct /b3 M

My body tensed instantly. The touch was so brief I might have imagined it, but the warmth of his breath lingered on my skin.

The following morning, I greeted Ethan with icy silence. My shoulder throbbed with pain, my head pounded, but it was the memory of fn7bd2 Th? link to the orig?n of this information r?sts ?n fin?novel/fn7bd2

that stolen kiss that fueled my cold anger.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, approaching the bed with a cup of water.

I fixed him with a sharp re, saying nothing.

Ethan shifted ufortably under my stare. “Your fever broke during the night. That’s good.”

“Don’t, I finally said, my voice t.

“Don’t what?”

“You know exactly what.” I looked away, taking the water without meeting his eyes.

Ethan stood there for a long moment, then nodded slightly. “I apologize.”

The tension in the room was palpable. He had crossed a line–whether out of genuine feeling or as payback for my earlier teasing didn’t

matter.

The rest of the day passed in ufortable silence.

As darkness fell, Ethan prepared to go out. “I need to scout the area,” he exined, checking his weapon. “Make sure we haven’t been tracked.”

I nodded, still maintaining my distance.

“The boy will stay outside the door,” Ethan continued. “He’s being paid to watch for strangersb./bb” /b

Before leaving, he hesitated, looking like he wanted to say something more. Instead, he simply nodded and slipped out the door.

From my bed, I could hear him speaking softly to the boy in Amharic, the sound of chocte being unwrapped–payment for the child’s services.

After Ethan’s footsteps faded, I heard the boy settle outside our door, asionally humming to himself. Some time passed before the humming stopped, and I sensed movement near the door.

From somewhere in the distanceb, /bI heard a man’s voice call out to the boy. The door creaked as the child quickly moved away from his spying position.

The voice grew closer–a man appeared at the door, speaking to the boy.