Clara was frozen. Cyra's palm was still pressed against her ribcage, warm even through the thin cotton of her shirt. The sharp ache that had flared when she laughed was… dulling. Not gone, but softening, like the pain was being siphoned out of her and into the hand holding her.
Her eyes flicked up, wide and shifting between Cyra's and her injured side. "What— what did you do?"
He raised his brows. "Touched you. Scandalous, I know."
"Cyra."
She experimentedly removed his hand, but the pain came roaring back, white-hot and unforgiving. She gasped, clutching her ribs, and glared up at him like he'd orchestrated it purposely.
His eyes widened. "Oh, well that's interesting."
"Don't look so pleased," she muttered, but her voice was weaker now, unsettled.
"On the contrary, princess, I think I just discovered a brand-new talent." He leaned back in, deliberately setting his hand against her rib again.
The ache eased. Again. She could feel the difference instantly—pain ebbing, replaced by an almost soothing hum. It was too precise, too consistent to be coincidence.
"You—" she breathed, staring at him in disbelief. "You're healing me."
"Looks that way, yes." He smirked, but his eyes flickered with a quiet satisfaction.
She blinked, trying to process. "The criminal mastermind is also a miracle worker. You just keep adding to your résumé, don't you?"
"Multitalented," he said smoothly. "Some might call me perfect." He gleamed a half smile at her.
"Some might call you insufferable."
"Same thing."
Clara wanted to scoff, but her body betrayed her, loosening under his touch. For the first time since the injury, she wasn't in agony.
Cyra watched her tense body relax into his hand for a moment before speaking again, this time to a case-less black phone that he pulled out from his pocket.
"Yes, hello again doctor. I will be in need of your assistance— ok, thank you." He placed it down and returned both hands to Clara's injured side, not saying anything further.
The silence between them grew heavier. Clara writhered uneasily. His hand lingered too long. His gaze dipped, his eyes tracing her face, her messy hair, the stubborn set of her mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was softened, losing its flippant edge.
"It seems I'm particularly good at taking care of you."
Her breath hitched just slightly. "Congratulations. Add shaman to your résumé. Right under 'egomaniac.'"
He laughed, low and pleased. "Your faith in me is inspiring."
Before she could fire back, a knock came at the bedroom door—sharp, efficient.
"Cyra," a voice called. Male, flat. "You called?"
Clara stiffened.
"That must be the doctor. Natalia must of let him in."
"You have the doctor on call?—" Clara asked incredulously. "Like… a pizza delivery man? What are you, a mafia boss?"
He opened the door with a lazy flourish. "Darling, please. Mafia bosses are far less charming."
The gray-haired doctor entered the room and didn't ask questions. He never did. His eyes skimmed over Clara, her messy hair, her rumpled shirt, the tension in her posture. He didn't blink, didn't comment, didn't acknowledge anything beyond the practical.
"How is the patient? Recovering ok?" he asked Cyra, voice flat as stone.
"Mostly," Cyra said with a smirk. "But you'll find my hands more effective this time."
The doctor didn't comment. He crossed to the desk, laying out his instruments in neat rows: stethoscope, gauze, antiseptic. His movements were precise, detached. Clara bristled under the clinical indifference.
He examined her briefly, pressing along her ribs until she hissed. He changed some bandages without speaking. "Looks like the bones are setting nicely. She'll need rest and pain management. She'll need about 6 more weeks of rest, maybe more."
"Or—," Cyra cut in, sliding back into the chair beside her, "—she'll need me for a few days"
Clara's glare could have melted steel. "You're enjoying this way too much."
He smiled then faced the doctor. "Can you confirm?"
His palm pressed lightly against her ribs again, and in front of the doctor, the faintest spark flickered where their skin met. A soft glow—barely visible, but undeniable. Clara felt the hum inside her again, pain unraveling.
The doctor's expression faltered for the first time. His eyes flicked to Cyra, then to Clara, and then back to his instruments. He picked up a small rubber hammer and softly tapped her rib. He returned the hammer and snapped the bag shut without a word.
"Wait," Clara said, caught between alarm and confusion. "Aren't you going to—?"
"Seems I'm not needed," the doctor said, his tone clipped. He stood, adjusting his glasses.
"Call me if you require actual medicine." And with that, he strode out, the door clicking firmly behind him.
Clara blinked after him. "Well. He's… cheerful."
"Discreet," Cyra corrected. "And worth every penny."
"You pay him for that bedside manner?"
"I pay him for silence." Cyra turned back to her, eyes gleaming.
"So…" he said, fingers tracing idly along her side as if he weren't fully aware of the intimacy of the gesture, "— you need me even more than you thought."
She swatted his hand away, but softer this time. "Don't let this go to your head."
"Too late." He leaned back against the headboard, grinning like the devil himself.
Despite herself, she laughed—short, startled. Her ribs didn't punish her for it that time.
"God, I hate you."
"Liar." he murmured smugly.
"Thief." she answered with a child-like stubborn.
"Princess."
"Says the one who lives in a mansion the size of a small city and has doctors and assassins and who knows what else on their beckon call. The closest one to royalty here is you pampered prince Cyra"
"More like king, darling. Kings always get their way." His eyes were dark and mischievous.
"You're dangerous," she muttered finally, peeking out at him through her messy hair.
"Darling," he said, his voice a mix of flippant and honest, "—you're just figuring that out now?"
She wanted to roll her eyes, wanted to push him away—but instead, she leaned back into the pillows, letting her body relax for the first time in days.
And as Cyra watched her, smug but faintly earnest, Clara realized the real danger wasn't Emor, wasn't even the moon gem.
It was the man sitting beside her.