chapter 128
Elena's POV:
I left the rehabilitation room with as much dignity as a seven-months-pregnant woman could muster, which wasn't much.
Sebastian's gentle but firm dismissal still stung, even though I understood his need for privacy during those grueling sessions.
Back in the living room, I flopped onto the sofa with considerably less grace than intended, glaring at the television remote as if it had personally offended me. The manor felt too quiet without him, too empty despite the staff moving about their duties.
I flipped through channels aimlessly until a commercial filled the screen—vanilla ice cream drizzled with hot fudge, the spoon sliding through layers of chocolate chip cookie dough.
My mouth watered instantly.
It wasn't fair. The pregnancy cravings had been hitting me hard lately, and Sebastian had turned into some sort of nutrition dictator, monitoring every bite that passed my lips.
No caffeine, no raw fish, no soft cheeses, and absolutely no ice cream.
I glanced toward the hallway. Physical therapy sessions lasted at least an hour, sometimes longer if his stubbornness kicked in. Alfred was in the garden tending to Margaret's prized roses. Margaret had gone to visit a friend.
No one was watching.
The manor's kitchen was off-limits for Sebastian's banned foods, but Margaret, bless her, understood pregnancy cravings. She'd quietly stocked chocolate ice cream in the freezer and occasionally slipped me a small bowl when Sebastian wasn't around, pressing a finger to her lips with a conspiratorial wink.
Five minutes later, I was back on the sofa with a small container balanced on my belly, the first spoonful already melting on my tongue. Pure bliss. The mint was sharp and refreshing, the chocolate rich and satisfying.
This was worth whatever lecture I'd get if caught.
I was just scraping the last bit from the bottom, savoring every final taste, when I heard it—the soft whisper of wheels on hardwood.
My head snapped up to find Sebastian in the doorway, his eyes narrowed as they took in the scene: me, spoon in hand, empty container in lap, probably with telltale chocolate at the corner of my mouth.
Instead of hiding the evidence or cowering, I deliberately scraped the final bit from the bottom of the container and licked the spoon clean, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
Well, this is what he gets for being so stubborn about not letting me stay with him during therapy, I thought defiantly.
"Elena Ross Vane," he said, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I knew so well. The wheels of his chair whispered against the hardwood as he moved closer.
"Weren't you supposed to be in physical therapy for another hour?"
"Don't change the subject." He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I had to look up to meet his gaze. "You know what the doctor said about cold foods during pregnancy."
I blinked innocently, though my heart had started its familiar flutter—not from fear anymore, but from something far more complicated. "The doctor said to avoid excessive amounts. This was just a small container."
"Your third one this week."
Damn. He'd been keeping count.
"I've been craving it," I said, attempting to stand. My rounded belly made the motion awkward, and before I could fully rise, his hand shot out, grasping my wrist—not painfully, but with enough firmness to keep me in place.
"Elena," he said, and the way he drew out my name made something warm unfurl in my chest. "Do you have any idea how close you are to a proper punishment?"
I tilted my head, studying him. His jaw was clenched, but there was something almost playful in the set of his mouth.
"Oh?" I said mildly.
That single syllable seemed to ignite something in him. He leaned forward, gripping both armrests of his wheelchair, and suddenly the space between us crackled with tension.
"You think I can't take care of you properly from this chair, is that it?"
The vulnerability beneath his accusation made my throat tight. "No, that's not—"
"Then why sneak around?" He tugged gently on my hand, drawing me closer until I was perched on the edge of the sofa, our knees almost touching. "Why not ask me?"
I mumbled into my chest, not quite meeting his eyes. "Because you'd definitely say no." I raised my gaze then, a hint of accusation creeping into my voice. "Besides, you wouldn't even let me stay with you during therapy. So I had to find my own entertainment."
Sebastian sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand as he seemed to wrestle with himself. Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"Fine. You can come with me to the rehabilitation room from now on."
"Really?" I perked up instantly, my eyes widening with surprise and delight.
"Can't have you getting into more trouble the moment my back is turned." He began wheeling himself toward the door, then paused to look back. "Besides, I perform better with an audience."
---
In the rehabilitation room, I settled onto a padded bench against the wall, watching as Sebastian transferred himself to the parallel bars with practiced movements. Dr. Harrison, his physical therapist, nodded acknowledgment at my presence but kept his attention on his patient.
"Twenty steps today," the doctor said. "Take your time."
Sebastian gripped the bars, his knuckles white with effort. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself upright. I held my breath, remembering a time when he could cross a room in three strides, when his physical presence alone could fill any space.
He took one shuffling step. Then another. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and I had to clench my hands in my lap to keep from rushing to help.
By the tenth step, his left leg was trembling visibly. By the fifteenth, his jaw was set in a way I recognized—pure stubborn determination. On the twentieth step, he lowered himself back into the wheelchair with controlled precision, his chest heaving.
"Excellent progress," Dr. Harrison said. "Your muscle memory is returning faster than anticipated."
Sebastian's eyes found mine across the room. Something raw and unguarded flickered in their depths before he schooled his expression back to casual arrogance.
"See?" he said, as if those twenty agonizing steps had been nothing. "Boring as I promised."