CHAPTER 14. LURED #3
I look up at him with a small smile. If this is still the meds talking, I’m not about to waste it. He gives me one of his faintest smiles in return, still holding my hand, watching me like he’s waiting for something.
“What?” I whisper, the smile lingering—because yeah, I’m the one hopelessly gone for him, and the warmth buzzing under my skin won’t let me pretend otherwise.
“Stay,” he says, voice low and rough. “Please.”
I know he means with him. Tonight. Heat twists low in my stomach, my chest pulling tight. When he talks like that, his voice does something to me—melts my brain into jelly.
“Just for tonight,” he adds, softer, almost solemn.
“Yeah,” I murmur, a little breathless.
He tugs gently on my hand, and I follow him through the kitchen, down the dark hall, into his bedroom. He lets go to draw the curtains, and I climb into bed, the near-darkness settling heavy around me.
Xavier circles the bed and slips under the covers on the other side. He turns toward me, and even in the dim light, I can feel him watching. The room goes still, filled only with the sound of our breathing.
Exhaustion pulls at me, and I shift closer until our heads rest on the same pillow.
God, my whole body aches with how much I want him near.
I want to touch him—but I don’t. I need to respect what he asked.
So I just lie there, hoping he’ll touch me first, give me one more taste of this dream before morning comes and washes it away.
And then, like he read my mind, Xavier’s arm slides around my waist and pulls me close.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my cheek.
“What are you sorry for?” I whisper.
“For embarrassing myself today.”
“You didn’t,” I say quietly, not even sure what he means. I run my hand over his shoulder, trying to soothe him.
“It’s just…the things I said in the taxi,” he mumbles, shame creeping into his voice.
I pause.
“So you didn’t mean them?” I ask, trying not to sound disappointed, but it slips through anyway.
Xavier goes quiet. Then sighs, wrecked. “Fuck, Newt.” His arm tightens around me, our legs brushing beneath the covers. “I’m still a little medicated, so I probably shouldn’t say anything if I don’t want to completely humiliate myself again.”
I laugh. “Alright.”
“Ask me again tomorrow,” he whispers.
Another soft laugh escapes me, warmth curling through my chest. “Alright,” I say again and close my eyes, sleep finally beginning to take hold.
Just before I slip under, I swear I feel Xavier’s lips brush my cheek—but I can’t tell if I dreamt it.
***
Time slips by.
Somewhere deep in my mind, tangled between sleep and wakefulness, I hear my own voice.
“What? You don’t like it?”
There’s a long sigh, and Xavier says, “You’re drunk. You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”
I chuckle. “I promise I’m not.” Then give him another quick kiss.
“Oh God,” he mutters, his voice dark and serious.
“Fine,” I say. “Leave, then. If you don’t want me.”
He lets out a sharp breath. “Fuck, you can’t say things like that.”
“Why? Because you’re not gay?”
He sighs again—
But before I can hear his answer, I jolt awake, sucking in a sharp breath.
Everything comes into focus—the walls, the chandelier, the faint smell of soap and fabric softener, Xavier’s warm breath against my skin, his arm heavy across my waist, the weight of the comforter pressing us together.
I turn my head toward him—but he’s asleep. His breathing is steady, and I realize it was just a very confusing, vivid dream. Still, my heart beats too fast.
It’s warm in the room, and I lie there still for a second, trying to calm down. Then I slowly ease out of Xavier’s hold and reach for my phone near the pillow. I squint at the screen as I press the button.
3:15.
I set the phone on the nightstand and lie back down, staring into the dark, listening to Xavier’s breathing. I stay like that for what feels like half an hour, chasing sleep that won’t come.
Just as my eyes begin to drift shut, a sharp sound slices through the apartment.
I jolt upright. That wasn’t a dream.
I freeze, straining to hear anything else—but there’s only silence.
“Newt?” Xavier stirs beside me, his hand brushing my elbow. His voice is rough with sleep. “You okay?..”
“Yeah,” I whisper, still staring into the dark. “I heard something…”
He shifts, pushing himself up.
“What?..”
“I don’t know,” I murmur—but I’m sure I didn’t imagine it.
I throw back the comforter and sit at the edge of the bed, every sense on high alert. Xavier sits up too, listening with me.
The apartment is well soundproofed—we never hear neighbors or cars from outside—so whatever it was, it came from inside.
For a minute, we don’t speak or move. Logic tells me it might’ve been my overtired brain misfiring after the kind of day we’ve had—but something deeper, instinctive, says otherwise.
“I think there might be someone in the apartment,” I whisper, barely audible. “I’ll go check.”
But as soon as I start to get up, I catch Xavier moving beside me. He pushes the comforter aside and rises too.
I pad to the door, my bare feet silent against the floor, and Xavier follows without a word. I ease the bedroom door open, and we step out into the pitch-black corridor.
We reach the end and stop in the shadows by the kitchen entrance, staring into the dark shape of the room. It looks empty, but we stay frozen, waiting—for movement, for breath, for anything from the living room beyond.
Nothing.
Just my heartbeat thudding against my ribs, and Xavier’s tight, controlled breathing right behind me.
A full minute creeps by before I take a couple of slow steps forward and cross the kitchen. But just as I’m about to step onto the threshold of the living room, Xavier catches my elbow, stopping me in place.
I turn my head to him, confused—then I hear it. A sound slicing through the silence. Footsteps. In the living room.
I freeze.
There’s no mistaking it now. Someone’s in our apartment.
Moving carefully, I peer through the doorway. By the coffee table, with his back to us, stands a dark figure.
I take another step. Xavier follows, silent.
Then it happens. A floorboard under my foot creaks—sharp, loud, breaking the quiet like glass.
The intruder spins around, startled, eyes locking with mine behind a mask.
And in the same breath, Xavier moves—charging straight at him, without a flicker of hesitation.
There’s a crash as two bodies slam into the coffee table, followed by the clatter of plates and forks. I rush to them, but there’s another heavy thud—an oomph—and the masked figure slips free, wriggling out of Xavier’s grip. Xavier hits the floor, and the intruder bolts toward the door.
For a split second, I freeze, torn between going after him or checking on Xavier.
“After him, Newt!” Xavier shouts, breathless.
I’ve already lost too much time—but just as I move, the intruder suddenly slips, crashing to the floor. That’s all I need. I leap, landing hard on top of him, pinning him down as he grunts and curses, thrashing under me, trying to throw me off.
I feel the rough fabric under us—the blanket Xavier carelessly dropped by the door. That’s what the intruder slipped on.
We struggle for a few seconds, limbs tangled, breaths harsh. I twist his left arm, hard, and he cries out, slumping beneath me. I think I’ve got him—I reach for his mask—
Pain explodes through my thigh, sudden, blinding. I jerk back with a curse, my hand flying to the hilt of the knife now buried in my leg.
That’s when the bastard shoves me off in one hard motion and bolts for the door.
I hit the floor, gasping, both hands pressing around the blade. Blood gushes hot between my fingers, and my head spins.
“Are you alright?” Xavier’s voice cuts through the haze as he drops to his knees beside me, his face tight with panic. “Are you bleeding?”
“Yeah,” I hiss, pain shooting through my leg.
He stands, and for a second, I think he’s going to go after the guy—but instead, he flips on the light and rushes back to me, dropping down again. Yeah, the light doesn’t make it look better.
“Give me your shirt,” Xavier says, already reaching for it—pulling it over my head before I can answer. Then he bunches it up and presses it firmly against the wound.
Even though it’s life or death—and Xavier’s seen me shirtless plenty of times—I still feel weirdly self-conscious.
Not just because of the harsh light, or the scars, or the bruises from our morgue trip, but because Xavier’s shirtless too, and next to him I look like some gym newbie in his first year.
I know. Sometimes my brain just does its own thing.
“Can you hold it for a moment?” he asks, locking eyes with me. “I need to get my phone to call an ambulance.”
“Yeah,” I nod, gripping the shirt and applying pressure.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, already running into his room through the kitchen.
He’s back in seconds, phone to his ear, talking rapidly to the dispatcher.
Then he’s kneeling beside me again, one hand holding the shirt pressed around the blade, the other dialing Willand.
I spot the medkit tucked under his arm, the one he must’ve grabbed from the bedroom.
After letting Willand know what happened, he sets his phone down, pulls out a roll of bandages, cuts a long strip, folds it into a thick pad, and swaps it in for my blood-soaked shirt.
Then he starts wrapping my thigh—fast and tight—layering the bandages over the pad and around the knife, pressing down hard.
He doesn’t even look at me until he’s done. When he finally does, I catch the worry in his eyes, even though he tries to cover it with a small, crooked smile.
“You’re gonna be alright,” he says, pulling out a pack of wet wipes. He cleans the blood off his hands first, then gently takes mine and wipes them too.
I just watch him, still kind of dazed by the whole thing.
“How are you feeling?” Xavier asks, tossing the bloody wipes into a pile on the floor.
“I’m fine,” I say, managing a smile. “Don’t worry.”