Maximilian lay propped against the bed with one arm resting loosely at his side while the other was flexed slightly as one of the nurses adjusted the bandage around his ribs. Fresh linen smelled faintly of antiseptic. His torso bore the evidence of the recent war, with deep bruising fading into yellow and violet, stitches pulled tight beneath gauze, and a narrow strip of white bandage cutting across his cheek. Another rested above his eyebrow, an almost careless mark on a man who rarely showed weakness.
“You’re healing faster than expected,” the nurse said, fingers deft and precise. “But that doesn’t mean you’re healed.”
Maximilian’s gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling. “The difference is irrelevant.”
She paused, unimpressed. “It becomes very relevant when you tear something open and bleed
