Natalya pushed my wheelchair into one of the ground-floor rooms with determined strides, Helen trailing behind us like a nervous shadow. The room was spacious, the late afternoon light filtering through the heavy curtains, casting a warm glow.
Natalya helped me onto the bed, her touch surprisingly gentle despite the storm brewing in her eyes. As she stepped back, she suddenly seemed to realize she was still in her bathrobe, the fabric clinging slightly to her curves. A rare flush crept up her neck as she looked down at herself.
"I'm going to change my clothes," she muttered, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant. She turned to Helen, her tone shifting to something dangerous, like the edge of a blade. "Call me if he needs anything. Anything at all."
Helen nodded frantically, her fingers tightening around her medical bag. "Y-yes, ma'am."
