CHAPTER 14. LURED #2
When they’re done taking photos, they ask Xavier to take off his coat and shirt. He does, stripping down to his bare torso.
There’s blood smeared across his abs, but I still find myself staring. He hasn’t even been to the gym this week, and somehow he still looks unfairly good. I try not to ogle.
I know—it’s the worst possible time for this. But try telling that to my suddenly very awake libido.
The CSI techs bag up his clothes and tell him he can grab a blanket from the ambulance if he needs it. The paramedics are already here too, standing off to the side, waiting for the CSI team to swab Xavier’s hands before stepping in.
“Are you alright, sir?” the blonde one asks, eyeing the blood on his stomach.
“I’m fine,” Xavier says for what feels like the dozenth time tonight—but then he finally looks up at her. “Do you have anything for a headache? It’s killing me.”
“Sure,” she says easily. “Aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen—whatever you prefer.”
“Acetaminophen,” Xavier says.
The paramedic rummages through her medical bag and pulls out a blister pack. She pops out a pill and holds it out, but Xavier just stares down at his bloodied hands.
“I’ll take it,” I say, stepping forward to grab the pill from her. Then I turn to him. “Come on. Let’s go find a bathroom—I’ll help you wash up.”
Xavier nods, and we head deeper into the house.
When we find a bathroom, I close the door behind us and turn on the tap.
For a minute, we just stand there in silence—Xavier scrubbing the blood from his hands, the water in the sink swirling pink. Then he grabs a pack of wet wipes from the counter and starts wiping the blood off his abs and stomach.
I want to ask him what he was really doing here—since I know he lied to Willand about Mrs. Bridge calling him—but I don’t. I don’t want to interrogate him, not now.
So I just stand there, watching him, feeling my own headache start to burn in the back of my skull.
When Xavier finishes cleaning up, I hand him the pill, and he swallows it dry. Then he looks at me.
“I’ll tell you everything when we’re home,” he says, like he just read my mind, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, my heart skipping a beat.
He looks at me for a second longer, something raw in his eyes—then steps closer and hugs me, pulling me in tight.
I hug him back, my breath catching as he presses his face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in. I catch the faint scent of soap, wet wipes, and underneath it, just him—and my heart hammers against my chest.
It only lasts a second before he lets go and says, “I want to go home.”
I nod. “Let’s go ask Willand if he’s done with you.”
Xavier nods, his eyes lingering on my face for a moment before he turns and steps out. I follow him back into the living room—and just like that, the small, fragile calm we had breaks, and I’m back at the crime scene.
We find Willand talking to Crowley. As we approach, she glances at me and I almost instinctively brace for some of her usual nonsense—but instead she just hands me my jacket.
“Is this yours?”
“Thank you,” I say with a nod.
She nods back, then gives Xavier a quick once-over, her brow furrowing.
“Do you need us here?” I ask Willand. “I think we should go.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Not today.” Then he glances at Xavier. “If you remember anything else about the guy, call me.”
“I will,” Xavier says quietly, shooting me a quick look. I catch the flicker of impatience in his eyes, the tension in the way he stands—like he can’t take being here another second.
I nod, head over to the medics to grab a blanket for him, then order a cab.
A few minutes later, we leave the house behind and find our cab waiting across the street. As we climb in, the driver gives us a long look—probably trying to figure out why Xavier’s wearing a blanket instead of clothes—but he doesn’t say anything.
We sit in silence for a while. It’s only after we leave Fulton behind and roll through the quiet stretch of Marlow Park that Xavier says, “Are you angry at me?”
I turn to look at him. He’s half-turned toward me, wrapped in that rough, cheap-looking blanket, his cheek pressed against the headrest.
“I’m not,” I say honestly. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
He watches me for a second, like he’s not sure he believes it. I reach up and press a kiss to the crown of his dark curls. I feel him freeze under my touch—and when I pull back, he’s staring at me, brow furrowed, his eyes searching mine.
“Sorry,” I mumble, remembering he asked me not to touch him today.
Xavier doesn’t answer, just gives me a look I can’t read and turns back to the window.
We ride in silence after that, the cab rattling softly around us.
Traffic thickens on Somersby Road, and we end up stuck for nearly forty minutes just a few blocks from Hickory.
At some point, Xavier drifts off, his head resting lightly against the window.
I watch him for a moment, then settle back.
I could wake him, make us walk the rest of the way—but I don’t. I’d rather let him sleep.
When the cab finally stops in front of our building, thankfully, there’s no paparazzi in sight.
I nudge Xavier awake, and soon we’re stepping over the threshold on the second floor, shutting the door behind us.
Xavier drops the blanket right there and kicks off his shoes, heading straight for the bathroom without a word.
I collapse onto the couch in the living room and open a food delivery app, because I don’t have the brainpower to think about cooking or running to the store tonight. Honestly, I’m not even sure I can eat—but looking at Xavier’s condition, I know I have to make him eat, so delivery it is.
Lying there, scrolling through the menu, I settle on Armenian food. Xavier’s big on protein, and right now the only thing I can think of is ordering two kilos of khorovats with baked potatoes—and some zhingyalov hats on the side, mostly because I love them.
As I place the order, I listen to the faint sound of the shower running somewhere deep in the apartment, the white noise filling the silence.
I don’t even notice when I doze off, and I’m not sure how much time passes before I wake to the sound of the door closing.
I jolt upright, heart racing—some part of me convinced Xavier just left and I need to stop him—but when I sit up, I see him standing in the doorway with the delivery bags and my phone in his hand.
“God, I fell asleep and didn’t even hear the phone,” I mumble, rubbing my face, feeling stupidly embarrassed.
Well, not stupidly—there’s a reason. Xavier’s standing there in nothing but a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, and absolutely nothing else.
His chiseled muscles are on full display, and it honestly pisses me off a little to think some random delivery guy just saw him like that.
Xavier gives me a faint smile and crosses the room, setting the food down on the coffee table before dropping onto the couch beside me. He smells like shampoo and clean skin, and I realize I should probably shower too—after passing out on the couch, I feel sticky and gross.
“Hi,” he says quietly, glancing over at me.
“Hi,” I mumble, suddenly feeling way too aware of how close we’re sitting.
I turn away, grab the remote, and flick the TV on, just for some background noise.
I flip through a few channels—a gay scandal at the ministry, a weather report—then land on a Wuthering Heights adaptation.
I leave it running and start unpacking the food, feeling Xavier’s gaze following my every move.
Once the smell of grilled meat fills the air, I get up and head to the kitchen for plates and forks—half because we need them, half because I need a second to breathe.
When I come back, Xavier’s eyes are on the screen, though his face is unreadable.
On TV, Heathcliff watches Catherine and Edgar through a rain-streaked window, but I’m not sure Xavier’s really following the scene—he looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.
“Here you go,” I say, dropping down beside him and handing him a plate and a fork. He takes them without a word, and we start filling our plates.
We eat in silence for a while, but it’s not uncomfortable. We’re just too exhausted to talk, even though I know sooner or later we’ll have to.
When we finish eating, we just sit there, and I’m keenly aware of the space between us. On the screen, Catherine kisses Heathcliff’s back, licking the blood from his unhealed wounds. And somehow, sitting there with Xavier, watching her as the room darkens around us, it feels almost too intimate.
When the movie ends, I switch off the TV and push to my feet.
“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” I say. Xavier doesn’t answer—just watches me leave.
The hot water feels incredible against my skin, and I lose track of time, just standing there, letting it wash over me. My mind circles everything that happened today, over and over, until I’m not even sure it was real.
When I finally step onto the bathroom mat and towel off, the only thing I feel is bone-deep exhaustion—like it’s sunk into me, body and mind.
When I leave the bathroom, I hover in the hallway for a moment, looking toward Xavier’s door, debating whether to sleep in his room tonight.
After everything, I can’t imagine going to bed alone.
But in the end, I turn the other way—because he’s even more drained than I am, and he needs real rest. He needs to be fully himself again before I can trust that he actually wants me there, even if it’s just to fall asleep side by side.
I head through the kitchen and back into the darkened living room—but as I round the corner, I walk straight into Xavier’s chest.
“Jesus,” I exhale, trying to steady myself. “You scared me, Xavier.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, chuckling. Then, suddenly, his hand finds mine, fingers skimming lightly over my knuckles as we stand there in the quiet.