Chapter 46
FORTY-SIX
Charlotte
Liar.
That’s what I am. A fucking liar.
You don’t hate him, Charlotte? Really?
My brain isn’t able to process the amount of information I’ve been given these past weeks. But the fact that I’m suddenly sure of his love for me—is astounding.
Girl, you were already softening when he tatted himself. And don’t even get me started on this apartment you’re currently sucking his face in.
I jerk back. My widened eyes staring at his lust-filled gaze.
Then he smiles. Chuckling as he reverently brushes his fingers against my cheek. “Yeah, you definitely don’t hate me.”
Shit-fuck-damn!
Without thinking, I lunge. Straddling him in a blink.
That’s when it happens. My whole body shuts down, taking me back to the time where I could only see the terror and pain.
And all it took was his brief, pained grunt.
“Fuck,” he groans, eyes squeezing shut.
I try to scramble back, fearing I’ve accidentally hurt him. But his grip on me tightens. Holding me in place.
“Wait. Just—” He hisses, blinking hard as though he’s trying to grit through the agony. “Okay, we’re good,” he says quickly, pulling me back down so he can capture my lips again.
I lean back, putting my hands on his chest to stop him. “You’re hurting, Theo. Stop.”
He looks at me, almost bewildered. “Baby, I’m fine. Your knee, it just brushed against the… the, the…”
“Stab wound,” I whisper. My gaze locked on his stomach.
My vision blurs, and all I can see is the prospect sinking that knife into his abdomen. And Theo lying still through it all.
“Hey,” I hear him say softly. His thumb rubbing my wobbling lower lip. “You know I’m okay, right? This is nothing.”
My whole face twists, my lips turning downward as I remember his agonizing groans from the cell.
The fact that he still fought…
“Hey, look at me, baby,” he says, tucking my hair behind my ears, his eyes studying the quiet desolation on my face. “I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re both fine.”
“Are you sleeping on the couch still?” I murmur, dropping my gaze.
It hurts to look him in the eyes. My chest tightens every time I needlessly search his eyes for our shared pain. But the man deliberately chooses not to show the hurt anymore.
It’s almost as if he wants to leave that cell behind. All while I’m struggling to dispel the rusted bars between us. Even if I’m the only one that sees them.
“Why? Will you offer me your bed?” he asks, but I can hear the amusement in his voice.
I force myself to scoff, settling down between his spread legs. “No.”
I look up to see his smile falter a fraction. But he sobers quickly. It dawns on me that he’s still wary about showing his feelings. Especially if he thinks I don’t welcome them.
“I’ll offer you your bed,” I blurt out, earning an instant boyish smile.
“Will you also change my dressing?” He grins, hooking his hands under my knees and pulling me closer.
“I’m not a nurse.” I deadpan.
The next thing I know, I’m shivering under his touch as he glides his hands over to my waist. His touch is firm, but enticingly reverent.
My whole brain short-circuits. I can clearly see that he’s not even consciously aware of his softened actions. They come naturally to him.
I jump up and stand right between his legs—albeit carefully. Not wanting to accidentally hurt him again.
God. Why is he looking at me with such unsure eyes?
His whole face has dropped to a soft, questioning peep up at me—gaze filling with concern as his lips part at my abrupt move.
“Up,” I snap softly, my hand outstretched as though I can actually handle his massive weight.
The man entertains my gesture, clasping his hands on mine. I’m sure he’s not giving me even a fraction of his weight.
And then I catch it—his smile—as he stands up with effort.
There’s something dangerously soft about this ease, this almost-normal moment like the world outside hasn’t been burning for weeks.
Like we weren’t just there.
My chest tightens.
He must see it or feel it, because his hand comes up again, slower this time. More careful. His thumb brushes just under my eye, like he’s checking for cracks. “You’re thinking too loud,” he says quietly.
“And you’re not thinking at all,” I retort, my voice cracking. “How are you… okay?”
His brows pull together, like he’s translating something unspoken. Then he leans his forehead against mine, voice softer—steadier. “I’m not. But right now, I’d like a break from what’s waiting outside these doors.”
My fingers curl into the hem of his cut, clutching it like an anchor.
“I feel it too, baby—I do,” he murmurs hoarsely. “But I’m selfish enough to admit you’re all I care about right now. Just you. You being here. Alive. Unharmed.” His thumb brushes the side of my neck, grounding, warm. “It helps. So I’m gonna focus on that, okay?”
I tremble under his touch. His fingers are too close to my throat.
For the first time, it’s not the lack of fear that shocks me. It’s the reluctant whisper of warmth.
“You and me,” he whispers, swallowing thickly. “No cells. No blood. No…” His jaw tightens, voice thinning. “…everything else.”
I nod, my chest tight with something fragile and unfamiliar.
We fought so hard to get here. To this quiet. And now that we have it, we don’t know how to move past the wreckage surrounding us.
We take the silence that follows as our due. A few deserved moments to help realize the weight of our present.
“Do you…” I clear my throat. “Do you have the kit? To change your dressing?”
He leans back slightly, one brow lifting. “You’d actually do that?”
“If you can do it yourself—”
He groans—loud, dramatic—slumping sideways into me. His hand flies to his abdomen.
“No, I need your help,” he breathes weakly, peeking at me through barely open eyes. “Please, baby. Would you?”
I stare at him. Flat. “You’re clutching the wrong side.”
He blinks, then slowly slides his hand to the other side with a pained hiss. “Damn, it hurts.”
Despite everything, a small huff escapes me. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yet here I am,” he mutters, letting his head fall against my shoulder. “Wounded. Vulnerable. In desperate need of care.”
I shake my head, but I help him anyway. “No, you’re giving me whiplash.”
I know he doesn’t want us dwelling on the darker memories. Which is why he keeps bouncing between vulnerability and distraction.
Weirdly enough, I want to let him.
We move slowly toward the bedroom, his weight leaning into me more than he’d ever admit.
Pain lingers in the way he exhales, in the tight set of his jaw. Making me think he wasn’t entirely faking it a few seconds ago.
When we reach the bed, he drops onto the edge with a quiet grunt. I hover for a second before he reaches for me, tugging me closer between his knees.
His hands come up to my face before he pulls me down and presses a soft kiss to my lips.
Then another. Slow. Careful. Like he’s memorizing me.
I don’t even realize when my hands settle on his shoulders, grounding myself just as much as he is.
“We can put a pillow between us, but I’m not leaving this bed,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I swallow hard, kissing him hard and quick. “I’ll get the kit.”
He nods, smiling. But I can still see that soft powerlessness, like I might vanish if he blinks.
I leave to grab the kit from the infirmary, ignoring Healer’s amused smirk.
Theo hasn’t moved much when I return—just enough to peel his cut off and toss it aside. His shirt follows, revealing the bandage wrapped around his abdomen.
My lips wobble as I climb in next to him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, catching my wrist before I can spiral. “Easy.”
I nod, swallowing hard, and get to work.
My fingers are careful as I peel back the old dressing. He hisses under his breath but doesn’t complain.
Not when I’m shaking.
“You’re doing fine,” he whispers, watching my face instead of what I’m doing.
I don’t answer.
The moment the wound is exposed, my vision blurs.
The cell.
The blood.
Him not moving.
My hands falter. “I can’t,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I can’t stop seeing it.”
His hand comes up, cupping my jaw, forcing my gaze to his. “Look at me.”
I try to shake my head as I clean the wound.
“Charlotte,” he says, firmer now. “Look at me.”
I do and everything else fades just a fraction.
“That’s how I got through it,” he says quietly.
My brows pull together. “What?”
“That night. Everything.” His thumb brushes under my eye, catching a tear before it falls. “When I thought I might lose it, I just looked at you.”
A shaky breath leaves me. “Oh really? You’re telling me you were scared?”
His expression shifts. “Terrified,” he says plainly, nodding. “Weak. Helpless. All of it.”
My breath stutters.
“I couldn’t protect you,” he continues, voice roughening. “And that… that damn near killed me.” His jaw clenches. “The only way I could even breathe long enough to stay alive was because you were okay.”
My hands shake violently against his skin as I wrap the fresh gauze, carefully securing it.
“As long as you gave me your eyes,” he murmurs, softer now, “I was fine.”
I stare at him. Silence stretches between us. My eyes darting frantically between his.
“And right now,” he continues, pulling me into his lap, his forehead brushing mine, “I’m fine. Because you’re here.”
My breathing picks up. The moment crashes into me with such a force that I can’t stop my heart from the dreadful feelings.
All while his gaze never leaves mine.
He pulls me in fiercely. Soft lips pressing against mine like a promise. Like gratitude. Like something neither of us has the words for yet.
It’s a deep, drugging kiss that I melt into helplessly.
It’s not our first kiss—not by a long shot. But it’s the first time I’m kissing him without any doubt shadowing every moment.
Before I let it guide my words, my hands, my lips.
Before I can think.
Before I can lie to myself again.
When we finally part, my forehead rests against his.
And I breathe.
The truth is loud and clear now.
I’m definitely a liar.
I don’t hate him—sure. That’s not even close to what I’m feeling now.
And it didn’t take a few bold, unforgettable words. But the persistent, indelible actions that I stopped counting a while ago.
In fact, I think I’m already descending—if not relentlessly falling. It’s slow and careful, but inescapable.
And I think it started a long time ago, one whispered confession at a time.