Lucian sneered. "Weren't you going to sleep on the sofa? Go on. Sleep."
"…"
Great. She'd just offered to sleep on the sofa so this ancestor could rest in peace, and now he was throwing it back in her face. Truly thankless.
Mia cleared her throat, forcing herself to sound sincere.
"I was thinking too much earlier," she said. "I forgot about your condition, Mr. Reed. I don't really need to keep my distance."
Her gaze slid down almost of its own accord, skimming over the space between his legs, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Lucian's face darkened at once.
His hand shot out, clamping around her wrist, and with a sharp pull he threw her down onto the mattress. A second later, he rolled, pinning her beneath him.
His weight pressed down, solid and strong, his posture all dominance and looming power. Mia's heart gave a hard thump.
"You care that much," he asked softly, "whether I can or can't?"
"As Mrs. Reed, of course I care," Mia said.
Her fingertips drifted from his cheek along the hard line of his jaw, then trailed down his solid arm. The light, unhurried touch was somehow incredibly seductive.
She leaned up, breath warm as she spoke into his ear.
"If you can't," she whispered, "then I can sleep in this bed without worrying you'll misunderstand my 'intentions.'"
Lucian went rigid.
All that for… a bed?
"You want all that," he said in disbelief, "just so you can sleep on a mattress?"
"Exactly." Mia nodded, perfectly serious. "If I sleep on the sofa or the floor, I'll wake up with my back and waist killing me. I still have eighty-nine days before I divorce you. For the sake of my health, I'd better sleep in a proper bed."
She withdrew the hand resting on his wrist and gave his chest a little push.
"All right," she said. "Time to sleep."
Without waiting for his response, she ducked out from under his arm, slid under the covers, and turned her back to him.
Before long, Lucian heard her breathing even out into a steady rhythm.
He stared at her in the dark, incredulous.
She'd… actually fallen asleep.
Somehow that irritated him. But she was being so unusually "sensible" that he couldn't quite figure out what, exactly, he was annoyed about.
When he realized his mood was dancing to her tune, Lucian's brows pulled together.
Dangerous.
Being affected by a woman—especially one who had married in with an agenda—was extremely dangerous.
He ruthlessly shut his thoughts down.
In the darkness, Mia opened her eyes.
She thought back to the feel of his pulse under her fingers earlier, and her brows knitted faintly.
The poison in his system had increased since the last time she'd used the needles on him.
It wasn't much. Just a subtle uptick. But his current condition was the result of countless "not muches" piling up over time.
Still… what did that have to do with her?
She was just a "lucky bride."
Even if she wanted to treat him, he wouldn't agree. He certainly wouldn't trust her.
The next morning.
When Mia opened her eyes, an impossibly handsome face filled her vision. Lucian's cold, cutting gaze locked onto hers.
They were very close—so close their lips were only a breath apart. Warm air mingled between them, intimate and restrained.
Her entire body was wrapped around him like an octopus, the position so close it was almost obscene.
The charged tension between them coiled tighter. Sparks seemed to crackle in the air.
"Had enough hugging?" he asked.
The words hit her like an electric shock.
Mia yelped and practically tumbled out of his arms, scrambling back like a guilty culprit.
"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I didn't mean to. I must've lost control in my sleep."
Lucian let out a cold laugh.
"So you 'lost control' and crawled into my arms," he said, "and also 'lost control' and took advantage of me?"
"That's impossible," Mia protested. "I sleep very properly."
Lucian plucked a long strand of dark hair off his chest between two fingers.
"Very properly?" he said pointedly.
Mia: "…"
Lucian's gaze slid downward, taking in the neckline of her slightly rumpled pajama top, the faint red marks on his chest where her hand had clearly been.
"Let me remind you, Mia Stone," he said. "You saved Emmett. I'm willing to let you use the title of Mrs. Reed to shelter yourself for now. That doesn't mean you get to climb all over me and act like a hooligan."
"A hooligan?" Mia nearly choked on her own spit. "I'm not that desperate."
His eyes flicked to her chest again.
"Shall I count how many times you squeezed," he asked mildly, "or will you remember on your own?"
Mia's mouth twitched.
That… wasn't entirely her fault. His chest just felt too damn good.
Knock, knock, knock—
Someone rapped on the door.
Mia bolted upright. "I'll get it."
She opened the door to see Aunt Qian standing there, smiling so widely her eyes nearly disappeared.
"Good morning, Young Madam," Aunt Qian said. "Madam asked you both to come to the main house for breakfast."
As she spoke, she craned her neck, peeking into the room.
Lucian was leaning lazily against the headboard, slowly buttoning his pajama top.
Aunt Qian brightened immediately, voice rising with excitement.
"Young Madam, no need to rush," she said meaningfully. "Take your time. Help Young Master wash up first. I'll go downstairs and let Madam know."
Before Mia could respond, Aunt Qian bustled off, humming under her breath.
Back in the bedroom, Lucian was bracing his arms on the bed, clearly intending to move to the wheelchair on his own.
"I'll help you," Mia offered.
"No."
"Oh."
She folded her arms and watched.
His body had already been failing a year ago. After another month in a coma, the strength in his upper body wasn't what it used to be. His arms trembled as he tried to lift himself. Before he could settle into the chair, his balance gave out.
He hit the floor hard.
Fury flared in his eyes, mingling with something darker—helplessness, unwillingness.
A pair of slender, pale hands slid under his arm.
They looked delicate, but they were surprisingly strong. She leveraged her weight, lifting and guiding until he was seated safely in the wheelchair.
"Admitting you're temporarily weak because of illness won't make you any less strong," Mia said quietly.
Lucian looked up at her, eyes sharp.
No one had ever said something like that to him before.
"I'm just saying it casually," Mia added quickly. "It's not some ploy to manipulate you, and I don't have any hidden agenda. You can relax, Mr. Reed."
She sounded very earnest—she might as well have been raising her hand to swear an oath.
Lucian snorted. "So now you're switching to the virtuous-and-gentle route? You really are full of tricks."
Mia: "…"
Someone please tell her: how exactly did one treat paranoia with persecution complex? Because acupuncture clearly wasn't going to cut it.
Lucian jerked his chin.
"Help me wash up," he ordered.
Mia obediently helped this ancestor through his morning routine, then pushed him downstairs.
As they entered the living room, Aunt Qian was in full storytelling mode in front of Mrs. Reed, gesturing enthusiastically.
"…and his robe was only just put on this morning," she said, eyes shining. "Who knows how wild things got last night. With a Young Madam that pretty—well, even I feel soft looking at her, never mind Young Master."
"Madam, this is a very good sign," she went on excitedly. "Maybe one of these days Young Master will be, um, 'motivated' back to full health."
"Do you really think so?" Mrs. Reed's face was full of worry. "Dr. Shea said we'd have to find Quentin Hale for any hope…"
"It'll happen." Aunt Qian nodded firmly. "Young Master is so brilliant—like a genius from heaven. There's no way he'll stay… worse than an animal forever."
Mia had just reached the bottom of the stairs in time to hear that last line.
Her cheeks warmed.
She'd known Aunt Qian's look earlier had been loaded, but she hadn't expected the older woman's imagination to run quite that wild.
She glanced sideways at Lucian.
He sat straight in the wheelchair, expression utterly indifferent, as if he hadn't heard a single word.
All right then.
Clearly her skills weren't at his level yet.