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“It’s not.” But the word comes out sharper than I mean it to, and I feel her tense under my hands. I ease my grip. “It’s peaceful. A different kind of quiet.”

“Mmm.” Her voice is fading, words starting to slur. “I’d sit with you. If you wanted company.”

She’s nearly asleep. I can hear it in the drag of her syllables, the way her breathing has gone deep and even between sentences. I finish with the ointment, wiping the excess on a corner of the sheet, and slide my hand up to cup the back of her neck.

“Turn over, baby.”

She mumbles something unintelligible but complies, rolling onto her side with the sluggish movements of someone three seconds from unconsciousness. I lie down behind her, fitting my body against hers, one arm beneath the pillow and the other draped over her waist.

Kira makes a small, satisfied noise and presses back against me. Her ass fits against my hips, warm and smooth under my palm where the ointment has soaked in. I can feel every breath she takes, the rise and fall of her ribs against my forearm.

Apart from my beautiful wife, it’s been years since I’ve held someone like this. I’d forgotten how it feels—the weight of another person trusting you enough to fall asleep in your arms.

She’s asleep within minutes. I’m not. My mind is too loud, too busy cataloging the newness of this. The way my chest tightens when she sighs in her sleep. The possessive ache that lives somewhere behind my sternum and has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the woman currently using my bicep as a pillow.

Taking care of her felt good. Not in the way punishment feels good, or control, or even the blinding pleasure of watching her come apart. This was quieter. Deeper. The kind of good that settles into your bones and makes you wonder what the fuck you’ve been doing with your life until now.

I press my lips to the back of her neck and close my eyes, even though I don’t expect to sleep. Usually, closing my eyes is nothing more than an invitation for my mind to start running crazy. Until I eventually get irritated enough to leave the bed, pour a whiskey, and find something productive to do.

Tonight, I listen to Kira breathe. At some point, without realizing it, I fall asleep.

When I open my eyes again, pale morning light is cutting through the curtains. For several seconds, I just stare at it.

Morning.

I fucking slept through the night.

Kira is still tucked against me, one of her hands curled beneath her cheek, my arm heavy across her waist. I haven’t moved. Neither has she. Well, fuck me. This isn’t the first night I’ve slept beside her, yet this time my wife did what whiskey, exhaustion, and years of shitty sleep never managed.

Night after night, I’m lulled into restful sleep tucked against the soft curves of my wife. This continues for days, and I don’t think I’ve been this rested since before Paolo was born. And speaking of my son, he’s finally back in Boston.

“I’m ready,” he says, turning toward me.

We’re standing at one of the warehouses, checking the shipment for the Albanians is ready.

“I know you are,” I tell him in a rough voice. “Take the team with you, and let me know if there are any problems.”

He nods and reaches for the briefcase resting against his leg. “I’ve kept an eye on Harry Adams as you requested, and he’s had some meetings with NovaGen Pharmaceuticals.”

I run a hand down my face and let out a sigh. “I suspected as much,” I state.

“Want to tell me what all this is about? Isn’t he your father-in-law?” Paolo smirks at the last part.

While he double-checks he has everything, I quickly fill him in on Paige Adams’ situation. I still don’t know everything since Dr. Morgan’s being very tightlipped. Every time I probe she feeds me the line of wanting all the facts before saying anything.

But I know enough. I’ve seen some of the papers from NovaGen Pharmaceuticals, and when I confronted one of Paige’s regular nurses, she admitted she was hired by the pharmaceutical company and not the hospital.

Paolo whistles. “Damn. So the old man kept his wife sick on purpose?”

“That’s one possibility.”

“What’s the other?”

“That he got paid to put her into medical trials,” I growl, anger stirring inside me at the thought.

My son looks genuinely sick at the thought, which is exactly how I feel. Fighting over territory and settling blood feuds is one thing. But if Harry put his own wife through medical experiments for money, that’s another thing altogether.

“Does your wife know all this?” my son asks, arching an eyebrow when I shake my head. “Right, well, far be it for me to give relationship advice. But wouldn’t it be something you should share?”