Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega Chapter 59: The aftermath

Rafael awoke to lingering pain, lodged deep in his muscles like a grudge. It wasn’t sharp or dramatic, nothing worthy of battlefield glory. It was quieter, relentless, and deeply personal, as if his own body had decided to stage a protest after everything it had been subjected to.

His nape hurt the most.

The ache there pulsed hot and humiliating, drawing every ounce of attention back to the fresh mark beneath his skin. Every heartbeat sent another ripple of awareness through it, reminding him of exactly what had happened and exactly who had done it.

He lifted a hand, fingers moving automatically to assess the damage, and froze when he felt smooth gauze beneath his fingertips. The skin there was clean. Carefully dressed. dicated. Treated with ticulous care.

He blinked once, stunned into silence, then outrage hit him.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding ," Rafael muttered.

The bandage was secure. There wasn’t a trace of dried blood. No sting of exposed flesh. Sobody had done a very professional job tending to the wound. Which ant Gregoris, the bloodhound himself, quietly patched him up while Rafael had been unconscious and very much not consulted about it.

Perfect. Just perfect.

He tried to push himself upright and imdiately regretted existing. Hips complained. Lower back complained. Muscles he did not know had the ability to complain joined the chorus. His body felt wrung out, exhausted, and entirely unwilling to be sensible.

He hissed and gripped the sheets. "Fantastic. Brilliant. Yes. This is exactly how everyone dreams of waking up."

And then sothing warm and unpleasantly telling shifted low in his body, which did absolutely nothing to improve his mood.

"Oh, amazing," he muttered under his breath, sowhere between mortified and murderously offended. "Truly, this is a highlight in life."

It was only then that he noticed just how enormous the bed was. Miles of dark linen, expensive enough to make his eye twitch, surrounded him. The room stretched around that bed like a kingdom, all Gregoris’s design, shadowed elegance, and quiet control.

And it was empty.

No Gregoris at his back or his looming presence. For a fleeting mont Rafael actually dared to think that perhaps the universe intended to grant him silence before humiliation.

Rafael scowled at the ceiling as his common sense returned. "Of course you’d disappear. Wreck , brand , use your nonexistent dical certification to fix , and then vanish like you have etings to attend. Coward. Sadist. I hope you choke on your..."

A low laugh reached him.

Rafael went very still.

Slowly, carefully, and with all the dignity his body did not possess, he turned his head toward the windows.

Gregoris was there.

He was seated casually near the tall panes of glass, one ankle crossed over his knee, a sleek tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Morning light frad him in cool gold, making him look composed and infuriatingly satisfied with the world. There wasn’t a hair out of place.

He hadn’t even bothered pretending he wasn’t watching.

Rafael stared, then squinted at him with all the force of a personal vendetta. "You’re enjoying this."

"Yes," Gregoris replied, utterly without sha.

"My neck hurts," Rafael said, as though lodging a formal complaint.

Gregoris’s gaze swept lazily over him, pausing at the fresh bandage before continuing down with undisguised satisfaction. "It should. That outfit asked for it."

"I am in agony," Rafael declared, because if there was ever a mont to be dramatic, this was it.

"And still alive," Gregoris replied calmly. "Which ans things went well."

Rafael narrowed his eyes. "Define well."

Gregoris took a leisurely sip of coffee, as if contemplating quarterly reports instead of the aftermath of a scandal, a mark, and enough poor decisions to bankrupt a lifeti.

"You didn’t die," he said. "You didn’t break anything. The manor is still standing. You’re conscious, articulate, and already insulting . By every reasonable tric, that is success."

Rafael stared at him like he deeply wished reason were sothing he could physically throw.

"I hate your trics," he muttered.

Gregoris set his coffee down and finally put the tablet aside, as though it had rely been a formality to keep his hands busy while he observed a much more interesting subject.

"It’s mutual," he said mildly. "Your survival instincts are offensive."

Rafael made a noise that was half scoff, half pain. He tried to sit a little straighter, and his body imdiately reminded him of his life choices. He froze, teeth clenched, breathing through the wave of ache before it eased enough to allow coherent thought again.

Gregoris watched it happen.

"So," Rafael said, when he could think in words again. "Do you normally sit and watch your victims recover, or am I special?"

Gregoris smiled. "Both."

Rafael ran a hand down his face. "Of course."

Morning light filtered through the tall windows, catching the dustless air and the edges of the dark furniture, as if the room itself was aware of what it was housing and had decided to be quiet about it.

Finally, Gregoris spoke again.

"There are pain suppressants on the nightstand," he said. "Water as well. And before you ask: no, they’re not drugged, poisoned, or part of so elaborate secondary sche. They’re simply dication."

Rafael blinked at him. "You’re capable of normal dical care?"

"On occasion," Gregoris replied. "When I like the patient."

Rafael stared for a mont longer, then huffed a weak laugh he quickly regretted because even laughing hurt.

He swallowed the pill and chased it with water, trying not to grimace at how even lifting the glass tugged muscles that did not deserve to be involved in basic survival. He set it back down carefully.

"I need clothes," he said like he was asking for breakfast. "Then I am going ho."

Gregoris tilted his head slightly, as if Rafael had said sothing charming but fundantally incorrect.

"You are ho."

Rafael blinked once, then again, hoping for Gregoris to elaborate. He didn’t.

"I beg your pardon?"

Gregoris leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other again, as if they were having a reasonable morning conversation rather than whatever this was.

"You are not leaving this manor until your body is fully recovered," he said. "Preferably under professional supervision. With a minimum observation window of three days."

"Three..." Rafael choked. "Three days?"

"At least," Gregoris added thoughtfully. "Depends on how cooperative you are."

Rafael stared. "I am not an invalid."

Gregoris’s gaze dropped pointedly to the way Rafael was still half-supported by the headboard, to the stiffness in his shoulders, and to the faint tremor in his hands when he moved too quickly.

"No," he agreed calmly. "You are a stubborn oga with terrible self-preservation instincts. Which is worse."

Rafael’s mouth opened. Then closed. He settled on glaring because it required the least physical effort.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "I can walk."

"You could attempt it," Gregoris corrected. "You would make it six steps, then collapse dramatically, and I would have to catch you. I am preemptively sparing us both the trouble."

Rafael’s nostrils flared. "I am not your responsibility."

"Oh, that’s adorable," Gregoris said softly, almost fondly. "Incorrect, but adorable."

Rafael’s voice dropped. "Gregoris."

"Yes."

"I am not staying."

"Yes," Gregoris repeated, his tone patient in a way that absolutely wasn’t patience at all. "You are."