Page 34 of A Forbidden Arrangement

I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Right. Because that’s what this situation screams. Romance.”

The housekeeper doesn’t flinch at my muttering. She just tucks the folded clothes into a drawer that’s already full, eyes twinkling like I’m Belle and she’s my talking teapot. “Give it time, dear. He just needs someone who won’t let him brood all alone in this big house.”

“The man drugged me, tattooed me, and locked me in here. Pretty sure I’m qualified to think he’s exactly as bad as people think.”

She hums like I didn’t say a word and heads for the door. But when she pulls it open, there’s someone already on the other side.

A man in his fifties with thinning hair and a leather bag slung over his shoulder looks startled, but recovers quickly.

“Dr. Clark,” he announces, voice smooth, practiced.

Relief rises and falls in the same breath when I notice who’s standing just behind him in the hall. Xander. Arms folded. Silent. Watching.

The doctor shifts under that weight, his shoes squeaking against the floor. The housekeeper pats his shoulder like she’s seen this dance before and slips past him without another glance.

Now it’s just me, the doctor, and the shadow that owns the doorway.

Xander stays rooted outside, like stone, and I almost breathe easier. I can’t help wondering if he knows that. If he’s doing it on purpose.

The doctor tries to smile, but his weight keeps shifting, nervous energy leaking out in every twitch of his hands. “Mrs. Everette,” he says, fumbling over the name. “I’m here to check on you.”

“It’s not Everette, it’s Sinclair. Dahlia Sinclair.”

I push up, meaning to stand, but his hand lifts fast.

“No, no—stay seated. Dahlia.” He says my name, humoring me, but it’s better than Mrs. Everette, so I’ll take it.

So I sit, legs sliding over the side of the bed, blanket pulled across my lap.

The doctor clears his throat and kneels. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Headache?”

I force my shoulders straight. “I’m fine.”

Except my head still pounds every time I breathe too deeply. A sharp reminder of how close I came to being killed. I keep my gaze down. As of right now, Xander doesn’t seem to realize I saw him there.

The doctor reaches into his bag, pulling out one of those pen-like flashlights they all seem to carry. “Let’s just check.”

The light slices into my pupils. I clamp down on the urge to blink, holding steady because the last thing I want is to look weak while Xander’s watching.

“Good response,” the doctor mutters. He scribbles something on a pad. His eyes flick past me, toward the hall, and dart away again.

Xander hasn’t shifted an inch. A statue in the doorway.

The doctor sets things aside and reaches for the bandage at my temple. “We’ll have a look at this cut.”

The second his fingers brush the gauze, pain sparks, and I can’t stop the hiss that escapes my teeth.

Xander takes a step forward, and the air shifts, heavy enough to press against my ribs. The doctor’s hand jerks back as if burned.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes out, eyes wide. “Didn’t mean to…”

I glance at Xander. His eyes catch mine, reading something, and he leans back into the wall again, contained but not gone.

“I fell,” I try, but the words sound weak even to me.

The doctor doesn’t question it. His eyes flick once toward the hall, then back to his notes. He keeps his voice low, clinical. Dizziness, appetite, sleep. Quick boxes to tick, nothing more.

Thankfully, the doctor works fast, fresh gauze wrapped around my temple. The sting fades once it’s covered, but the pressure makes my jaw clench.