Chapter 112: Chapter 112

Adnar's POV

The doctor let Natasha leave after three days. He said she had to rest in bed for six weeks. She got mad about that. She wanted to return to work and address Morrison Companies' issues. Dr. Reynolds said no.

"You got shot," he said. "Your body needs time to heal. The baby needs you to stay calm. If you push too hard, both of you could get hurt. Six weeks before we even talk about going back to normal stuff."

Natasha complained the whole drive home. She said people were treating her like she was made of glass when she felt okay. I let her talk, knowing she was really just scared. She almost died. She almost lost our baby. That was still hard to think about.

Getting her comfortable at home took a while. She couldn't walk up stairs easily because of the wound in her stomach. I set up the guest room downstairs as her bedroom for now. Pack members brought her everything she needed. Books, her laptop even though the doctor said to rest, and snacks she wanted.

"I can take care of myself," she said when I brought her dinner on a tray.

"I know," I said. "But you don't have to."

She ate in bed and looked at her phone. Every few minutes she would wince because the pain medicine stopped working. She tried to hide it but I could tell.

"Take your pills," I said.

"I'm fine," she lied.

"Natasha," I said.

"Fine," she gave up and took two pills. "Happy now?"

"Very," I said.

After three days at home I, realized something. Natasha needed more help than I could give her. I still had papackingtuff to do. She couldn't cook with her injury. She couldn't clean. She couldn't do half the normal things without it hucausing her painI was trying to do everything but it was too much.

She needed someone here during the day when I was busy. Someone to cook meals, do light cleaning, maand ke sure she didn't try doing too much. A helper, though that word sounded too formal.

I got the idea when I watched Natasha try to reach something from the counter. Her face went white with pain when she stretched. She needed help even if she wouldn't say it.

I put an ad online that night after she fell asleep. I kept it simple about the job. Six weeks of light housework and cooking. Must be okay with someone healing from being hurt. Knowing about werewolves was good but not required.

People started applying right away. Dozens of them wanted the job because it seemed easy with good pay. I read through them all and picked four people to interview. Three women and one man. They all said they had experience.

I scheduled the interviews for the next afternoon. Thirty minutes apart so I could really talk to each person. Natasha didn't know about any of this. I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted to show her someone I alhad ready checked out instead of making her deal with hiring someone.

"Where are you going?" Natasha asked when I started setting up chairs in the dining room.

"Pack business," I lied. "Nothing big."

"In the dining room?" she asked.

"Conference call," I said. "Need the space."

She looked like she didn't believe me but stopped asking. I felt bad about lying but this was to help her. Once she saw how much easier things got with help, she would understand.

The first person showed up right on time. A mimiddle-agedoman named Patricia. She said she had fifteen years taking care of people at home. She knocked hard on the door. When I opened it she stood like she used to be in the military.

"Mr. Blackwood?" she asked and put out her hand.

"That's me," I said and let her in. "Thanks for coming."

Patricia followed me to the dining room and sat where I pointed. She pulled out a leather folder. Everything about her looked professional. Her suit was pressed and she sat up perfectly straight.

"So," she started before I could. "I read the job posting. Six weeks of light housework and cooking for someone healing from being hurt. I'm guessing that someone is your wife because of your ring."

"Yes," I said. "My wife Natasha. She got shot a week ago. She's still healing."

Patricia nodded and wrote notes. "Gunshot wounds need special care. I'm certified in helping people recover from trauma. I know about wound care, pain medicine schedules, exercises that help healing without causing more damage."

"That sounds good," I said.

"I take my work seriously," Patricia said. "Now, are there foods she can't eat? You mentioned pregnancy so I know nutrition is important."

"Four months pregnant," I said. "No special restrictions besides normal pregnancy stuff."

"Good," Patricia said and wrote more notes. "I'll need to use the kitchen for cooking. I need to know what foods she doesn't like. I need to know when she usually eats."

She kept talking. She explained how she would do the job with perfect detail. Every small thing plis anned out. Every possible problem hawas ndled before it happened. Every duty clis early defined. It was impressive but also too much. Listening to her turn simple housework into something needing charts made my head hurt.

"One more thing," Patricia said a,nd pulled out what looked like a contract. "I need all clients to sign this. It says what my duties are, what hours I work, how much I get paid, and how we can end the agreement. This is standard to make sure we both understand what we expect."

I took the contract and looked through it. Pages and pages of legal words that seemed like too much for six weeks of help. Parts about professional boundaries, who was responsible if something went wrong, prand omises not to talk about what happened in the house. It belonged in a law office, not someone's home.

"This seems like a lot," I said carefully.

"I've been burned before by unclear expectations," Patricia said. "This protects both of us."

"Right," I said. "Well, thanks for coming. I have more people to interview so I'll call you."

Patricia's face got tight when I basically said no but she stood up professionally. She shook my hand again and left. The door closed and I stared at the contract she forgot on the table.

The second person got there ten minutes late. She looked stressed when I opened the door. Her name was Beatrice. She was younger, maybe in her thirties. She said sorry five times before even coming inintohe house.

"I'm so sorry," she said, breathing hard. "Traffic was bad. I left early but there was an accident. I tried calling but it went to voicemail."

"It's fine," I said, though I didn't get any calls. "Come in."