Chapter 7 Nocturne for the Dead #2
Still, my knife stays in my hand. We move fast—through a private entrance, into a lift that smells faintly of metal and antiseptic. The doors close. The city vanishes. The hum of ascent replaces the chaos, and my body finally starts to notice the cost of the night.
The flat is waiting when we step out. Lights on. Warm. Immaculate. A man in scrubs appears immediately, summoned before we ever arrived.
“Bedroom,” the doctor says, already snapping on gloves.
Finn doesn’t argue. He guides me down the hall with a hand firm at my back, protective without asking permission. I’m sat on the edge of the bed before I can protest, silk and blood and adrenaline all tangled together.
The doctor steps in, clinical and calm. “All right,” he says. “Let’s have a look at you.”
I lift my chin, jaw tight, and finally set my knife on the bedside table. It lands with a soft, dangerous clink. Finn stays close, watching.
The doctor’s gaze flicks to my dress, then back to my face. “I’ll need you out of that,” he says calmly. “So I can check properly.”
Finn goes still. Not tense—dangerous.
“No,” he says flatly.
I don’t even look at him as I answer. “He’s a doctor.”
Finn’s jaw flexes. His hand curls like he’s imagining someone’s throat inside it. “I don’t care if he’s the feckin’ Pope.”
The doctor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush. Just waits, professional as stone.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, firmer now. I reach for the zipper before Finn can stop me. “Unless you’d like me to bleed out on your pristine floors.”
That gets me a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but Finn steps back.
Just one step. Enough. The dress slides down my body in a whisper of ruined silk and dried blood.
I feel the air kiss skin that’s still buzzing from adrenaline, bruises blooming beneath the surface.
I keep my chin high as I step out of it, refusing to feel small.
The doctor’s eyes never linger. Not once. He gestures me toward the bed.
“Sit,” he says gently.
He works quickly. Efficient. Cool hands cleaning shallow cuts, checking bruises, pressing where it hurts and nodding when I hiss. He murmurs updates aloud—superficial, no stitches, you’re lucky—like he’s anchoring me to the room.
Finn watches every second. I can feel him pacing behind me without turning around. Like a caged animal forced to trust someone else with what’s his.
The doctor finishes, hands me a soft robe. “You did well,” he says—not patronizing. Just factual.
I pull it on, tie it closed. Then he straightens and looks past me.
“Your turn,” he says to Finn.
Finn doesn’t hesitate. He strips like a man shedding armor—jacket discarded, shirt pulled over his head, skin marked with old scars and fresh blood. There’s nothing pretty about it. Just damage and muscle and violence barely contained.
I watch now. The doctor steps in, checking him with the same calm thoroughness. Pressing. Cleaning. Assessing. Finn doesn’t make a sound—not when antiseptic stings, not when fingers probe a tender spot near his ribs. His eyes never leave mine.
The doctor straightens. “You’re lucky as well,” he says. “Both of you.”
Finn doesn’t answer. He just reaches for my hand. One of his men knocks once and slips inside like he belongs everywhere.
“Rooms’ll be ready in a bit,” he says, apologetic but alert. “Sorry for the delay.”
The doctor nods, already moving. “They’re not going anywhere.”
He gestures to the bed like it’s non-negotiable. “Lie down. Both of you. Shock sets in after the noise stops.”
Finn opens his mouth to argue.
I beat him to it. “Don’t,” I murmur, suddenly exhausted in a way that feels bone-deep. “Just—don’t.”
That gets him. We lie back without ceremony. No touching at first. Just close enough to feel the heat of each other through the sheets. The mattress dips under his weight, solid and grounding, and I hate how much relief it brings.
The doctor dims the lights. “Rest,” he says quietly. “I’ll check back.”
The door closes. Silence rushes in where gunfire used to live. My hands start shaking once the danger’s gone. Not dramatic—just a tremor I can’t stop. Finn turns onto his side without a word and pulls me in, slow and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he moves too fast.
I should shove him away. I don’t. His arm settles around my waist. His breath evens out against the back of my neck. My body exhales for the first time all night, traitorous and grateful.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper.
Finn hums softly, already half gone. “Aye.”
Liar. Sleep takes me before I can argue—deep and sudden—wrapped in the man I keep swearing I don’t need.
Morning comes soft and wrong. I wake tangled in heat—too warm, too close, limbs everywhere. Finn’s arm is slung heavy over my waist, my back pressed to his chest like this is where I belong. Like we’ve done this a thousand times instead of never at all.
I freeze, breathe, and take inventory. Finn’s bare torso is a solid wall behind me, all scarred muscle and quiet danger, his hips low and unashamed in tight black boxers that leave very little to the imagination.
My own lingerie—the deep red set I wore beneath the gala dress—is still on me, straps twisted from sleep, silk warm against my skin.
Intimate, domestic, infuriating.
His breath fans over the back of my neck, slow and even. One thigh hooks over mine, possessive even in sleep. My leg is slotted neatly between his like my body chose him while my mind wasn’t looking.
I close my eyes. This is bad. This is very, very bad. Because my first coherent thought isn’t get away. It’s don’t move. I slip out carefully, slow and deliberate, easing his arm from my waist like disarming a bomb. Finn doesn’t stir. Typical. Man sleeps like the dead after carnage.
I snag the discarded robe from the chair, pull it on, tie it tight.
The fabric smells faintly of him—clean soap and gun oil and something darker I don’t have a name for.
I hate that my chest tightens over it. Bare feet on cold floor.
Quiet halls. The flat is hushed in that early-morning way that feels stolen, like the city hasn’t noticed we’re awake yet.
The kitchen lights are low. Stainless steel, stone counters, expensive and impersonal. Finn’s taste—controlled, fortified, safe. I brace my hands on the counter, head bowed for a moment longer than I mean to.
Just breathe. Just one minute without him. I straighten, reach for a glass, fill it with water taking a sip.
I feel him before I hear him—the air shifting, the wrong kind of quiet growing heavier. I keep my eyes on the glass in my hand as his reflection appears in the stainless steel of the fridge. Barefoot. Boxers. Scarred and unrepentant, like he woke up exactly as he was meant to exist.
He just… looks at me. Not hunger. Not fury. Assessment.
“Morning,” I say, because silence is worse.
“Morning,” he answers, voice rough, like he hasn’t used it yet today.
We stand there, the city barely waking beyond the windows, the building humming with the low thrum of men who didn’t sleep at all. Tomorrow presses in from every direction, a living thing with teeth.
“Doctor says we were lucky,” he adds after a beat.
“Luck’s a funny word for it.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “You were reckless.”
I finally turn. Lift a brow. “You married a woman who brings knives to galas. What did you expect?”
Something dark flickers in his eyes—pride, maybe. Or resignation. “Tomorrow,” he says instead.
There it is. The word lands between us like a blade set carefully on the counter.
“Valentine’s Day,” I reply. “Very on brand.”
“Our wedding,” he corrects, quieter.
I take a sip of water I don’t need. My hands are steady. I hate that. I hate that I learned how to be steady with him.
“Still time to run,” I say lightly. “I hear it’s all the rage.”
“Aye,” he says. “And yet you’re still here.”
We hold each other’s gaze too long. Something unspoken strains, stretches, threatens to snap.
“You shouldn’t have slept in my bed,” I tell him.
“You shouldn’t have stayed.”
Neither of us moves. Tomorrow waits. The city breathes. The silence settles again—uneasy, unfinished. And for the first time since the gala, since the blood and the noise and the hands on me that knew exactly how to calm the shaking, I don’t know who will break first.
Finn doesn’t touch me. That’s the first thing I notice. He stops in the doorway like he’s unsure whether the room will bite him back. Hair still rumpled from sleep. Jaw shadowed. Eyes too sharp for the morning. He takes me in the way he always has—like he’s cataloguing damage.
“You’re up early,” he says.
“So are you,” I reply, though he clearly isn’t. He looks like he woke to the absence of me and followed the pull.
Silence stretches. The city hums faintly beyond the windows. Tomorrow presses at my spine like a loaded gun.
“Tomorrow,” he says finally. Not looking at my face now—my hands, the robe tied tight. “What are you wearing.”
There it is. Not curiosity. Not softness. Due diligence.
“A dress,” I say. “Presumably white. Very convincing.”
His mouth tightens. Not amused.
“You know what I mean.”
I turn, lean back against the counter. The movement is slow. Careful. The kind we learned young—how not to give too much away.
“I know what the families approved,” I say. “I also know I didn’t pick it.”
His gaze flicks up. Catches. Holds.
“They’ll be watching every inch of you,” he says quietly. “Looking for cracks. Weakness. Regret.”
“And you?” I ask.
He exhales through his nose, the sound almost a laugh. Almost. “I already know where yours are.”
The words land heavier than they should. Because he does. Because I know his too. Because once, long ago, we learned them with bare hands and no witnesses. He steps closer then. Not enough to touch. Enough that I feel the heat of him, the memory of him, the echo of nights that weren’t bargains.
“It doesn’t matter what the dress looks like,” he says, lower now. “Tomorrow isn’t about love. It’s about survival.”
My throat tightens. “Funny,” I murmur. “That used to be your excuse for everything.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Fast. Gone.
“Finish your water,” he says, turning away like this conversation never happened. Like it didn’t carve something open. “We’ll be moving soon.”
I watch his back as he leaves. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Tomorrow is the wedding. Tomorrow, we seal a peace written in blood—and pretend we never learned how badly it still hurts to stand this close without choosing each other.