Chapter 16 – BELLS #2
But something has shifted between us, and we both know it. Some invisible line has been crossed, and neither of us can uncross it no matter how much we want to. The knowledge sits between us like a third presence in the room.
Rex's eye tracks over my face, searching for something I'm not willing to give. Then his expression shifts, but it's no less cold. I can't read this fucking alpha to save my life. His whole face might as well be a mask.
"Get out of Nash's room," he says abruptly.
I blink, thrown by the sudden shift. "Phoenix already told me this morning. It's fine, I told him I'll get a motel—"
"I'm not done." He cuts me off, voice sharp despite the exhaustion dragging at the edges.
His hand reaches for the water cup on the bedside table, and I watch his fingers tremble—whether from weakness or the drugs, I can't tell.
He starts to bring it to his lips, then has to pause and tilt his head to the left—that same careful angle I noticed at the restaurant—trying to drink from the undamaged side of his mouth.
Even with that precaution, water immediately starts seeping through the white bandages near his mouth, spreading in a dark stain across the gauze. He notices me watching and jerks his head away sharply, turning toward the window so I can only see his undamaged left side.
"Fuck," he mutters, setting the cup down with trembling hands.
More water sloshes over the rim, pooling on the sterile white sheets.
His whole body goes rigid, like he's bracing for a blow.
"Can't even drink water without..." His voice cracks, raw and broken.
"Without making a fucking mess. Can't do anything. Can't eat. Can't drink. Can't even—"
He cuts himself off, but not before I hear the self-loathing dripping from every word. His hand comes up to press against the wet bandages, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with disgust so visceral I can taste it. "Pathetic. Fucking pathetic."
Something twists in my chest. Sharp and unexpected.
I've spent weeks hating this man. Weeks being terrified of him, being angry at him, wanting to destroy him the way he's destroying me. But watching him sit there, unable to perform the simple act of drinking water, calling himself pathetic for having a body that's been through hell...
I know what that feels like.
Different circumstances, different prison, but I know what it's like to hate the body you're trapped in. To feel like a failure for not being able to do basic things that come naturally to everyone else.
"Rex—" I start, but I don't know how to finish. Don't know how to offer comfort to someone who's blackmailing me. Someone who'd probably throw any kindness back in my face.
"Don't," he grits out, still not looking at me. "Don't you dare fucking pity me."
"I wasn't going to," I lie, shoving down the unwanted sympathy trying to claw its way up my throat. Because acknowledging it means acknowledging he's human. Acknowledging he's hurting in ways that have nothing to do with the infection.
And I can't afford to see him that way.
"I'd offer to help, but I'm pretty sure you'd punch me in the face," I add with an awkward laugh, because what the fuck else am I supposed to say?
"I don't punch girls," he grits out.
My eye twitches. Great. Chivalry from my blackmailer. How fucking quaint.
Before I can tell him off for that, he looks at me again and holds up his palm, IV tape and all. "You're safer in the penthouse? Fine. Use my room."
I just stare at him, mouth slightly open as I process the bomb he just dropped. "Your room?" I finally manage. "You want me to stay in your room?"
"Yes." He shifts again, grimacing, and has to pause mid-breath as something clearly sends pain shooting through him.
When he speaks again, his voice is rougher, still not looking at me.
"It's the most secure room in the penthouse.
Reinforced door, separate locks, cameras.
Not that Stephen would set foot in the building itself. "
"What, do painkillers and antibiotics make you a white knight or something?"
His lips quirk—barely, just the corner of his mouth on the undamaged side—but it's there. A ghost of amusement that shouldn't exist on Rex Steele's face.
"Something like that," he mutters.
I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off the building headache at the thought of using my mortal enemy's room. "And you won't be using it?" I ask carefully.
"Not for the next week, according to the sadistic fucks running this place." His visible eye flicks to the IV in his arm with disgust. "Might as well have someone using the room who actually needs the security."
He blinks slowly, like he's trying to focus but can't quite manage it through the haze of medication.
"I…" I trail off, not sure how to respond. "Thanks…?"
"We're even," Rex says, his words coming out slightly too honest. "I protected you from that scumbag. You didn't let them take my mask. Phoenix told me." He pauses, jaw working. "Besides... not like we have any secrets to hide from each other anyway. I know you're a girl. You know I'm a monster."
Nothing to hide except the fact that I’m an omega, anyway.
I wince at his word choice. “You're not a monster."
Rex goes completely still. His visible eye narrows to a dangerous slit, but the reaction is sluggish, delayed by the drugs.
Oh, shit.
"You didn't see," he says slowly, like he's just solving a puzzle through a fog of painkillers. "In the tunnel. You didn't actually see."
"I saw scarring—"
His laugh is bitter, sharp enough to draw blood.
He turns to look at me fully now, and there's something raw and wounded in his expression that the drugs won't let him hide.
"If you'd seen my face, you wouldn't be able to deny it.
You wouldn't even be able to look at me without.
.." He trails off, his gaze unfocusing, staring off into the distance. "Even Nash couldn't—"
He cuts himself off, but not before I catch the raw pain bleeding through his voice.
Nash couldn't what?
Look at him?
The sentence hangs unfinished between us, too vulnerable to complete even though the painkillers are clearly deteriorating his filter. This proud alpha would never admit this otherwise.
And suddenly I see it.
The arrogance, the cruelty, the constant aggression. It's all armor. Layers and layers of it, built up over years to protect something that's been hurt so badly it can't risk being exposed again.
"My room's code is 6623. Don't touch my shit," he slurs. His eye is starting to flutter closed, the painkillers finally winning. "Now get out before..." He trails off, fighting to stay conscious. "Before Phoenix starts thinking I strangled you with my IV tubing."
Even that attempt at his usual dark humor comes out wrong, too soft, missing his typical venom. The drugs are pulling him under despite his best efforts to fight them.
"Rex—"
"Out, Bells."
I don't need to be told twice.
But he's wrong. We don't know each other's secrets. Not really.
Because I didn't see Rex's entire face.
And he still doesn't know I'm an omega.