CHAPTER 14. LURED #4
I mean, someone just broke into our apartment, so yeah—I’m a little shaken, but that kind of goes without saying.
“Do you think it was Mrs. Bridge’s killer?” I ask.
Xavier nods. “Yeah. I do.”
I frown. “What was he doing here? Trying to kill us?”
“He was looking for Bridge’s laptop,” Xavier says without missing a beat.
My stomach twists. “Wait—was he following us?”
Xavier doesn’t answer. His eyes are narrowed, his thoughts miles away.
“Xavier,” I say, trying to pull him back. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
He finally looks at me, like he’s still figuring out how to start.
“Did you lure him here?” I ask, serious—though I already have a feeling I know the answer.
“No,” Xavier says, just as serious. “At least, not on purpose.”
“What does that mean?” I sigh, feeling frustration and panic start to twist together in my chest. “We could’ve been killed in our sleep. I think I deserve to know what’s going on. So just tell me.”
Xavier pinches the bridge of his nose. “Remember yesterday, at Willand’s office, when I said Mrs. Bridge called me about the laptop?”
“Yeah, so?” I say, still not following.
“I thought the killer might be listening. So I lied. I wanted to see what he’d do.”
“Listening?” I falter, confused. “But there were only five of us. I don’t think Rishetor or Katie had anything to do with Bridge’s death, so…what does that mean? You don’t think it’s Crowley?”
“No,” Xavier says, the corner of his lips twisting bitterly. “As much as I hate her.”
“Wait.” It hits me. “You mean Willand’s office is bugged?”
He nods.
“So when you said that about the laptop—” I start, then fall silent.
“I didn’t plan for him to kill her,” Xavier says, voice suddenly raw. “I thought he’d break into her place to look for the laptop. I didn’t think…” He trails off, the regret bleeding into every word.
I place my hand over his, trying to steady him. “I know you didn’t.”
“And I didn’t know he’d come here either,” he says, looking away. “Or I wouldn’t have been lying in bed with you.”
“I know,” I say, squeezing his hand, my anger already gone. Then I frown. “But how did the killer know where we live?”
Xavier shrugs. “We’ve been on the news. He probably recognized me yesterday or something—put two and two together.”
I pause, thinking. “And there’s nothing important on the laptop? That was all a lie?”
Xavier nods. “Sorry I didn’t tell you yesterday.” He meets my eyes. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you. I was just…exhausted. I wanted to go to bed. Yesterday was kind of…”
“Overwhelming,” I say quietly, finishing the thought for him.
He smiles faintly. “Yeah.” Then, after a pause: “How’s your leg?”
“It hurts,” I admit, keeping my face as blank as I can. “But it’s nothing compared to when the Carver cut me.” I try to sound light.
Xavier’s expression darkens. His jaw locks; the softness drains from his eyes.
“Don’t bring him up,” he mutters, and there’s a darkness in his voice he’s never put into words before. “I still wish they’d shot him instead of arresting him.”
His gaze drifts over the scars on my chest before meeting my eyes.
I nod but don’t say anything. I wanted that too. Wanted the Carver to rot in the ground this whole time—especially during those first six months, when the nightmares woke me up night after night.
Knowing he’s still out there, even if it’s behind bars, still makes me wonder: what if he escapes one day?
What if he comes after me? After Xavier?
What if he shows up in the dark, like Bridge’s killer did just now?
I know it’s unlikely he’ll escape. But things like that happen, and even if the chances are low, they’re never zero.
We don’t get to keep talking. Xavier’s phone rings, and he gets up to meet the ambulance downstairs. When he returns with two paramedics, Willand is with them, along with a couple of cops.
He looks like he just woke up—which, at this hour, he probably did.
“What on Earth happened here?” Willand asks, his voice pitching a little too high as the medics rush in with a stretcher. “Can you two go one day without something going horribly wrong?”
“Bridge’s killer broke into our apartment,” Xavier says, eyes fixed on the medics now crouched beside me, their frowns deepening as they examine my leg.
“Jesus, Newt—is that a knife?” Willand blurts out, his voice edged with real concern as he steps closer.
“Yeah,” I mutter, trying to play it down even as the pain spikes. “Think I’ll need stitches?”
One of the paramedics gives me a look like I’ve just asked if I can walk it off.
“Yes, you do,” he says. “You need stitches, a scan, and probably a hell of a lot of painkillers. We’re taking you to the emergency room.”
“I’ll go with you,” Xavier says instantly, but Willand cuts in.
“You need to stay and tell me what happened here, Xavier.”
Xavier turns to him, ready to argue, but before he can, I say, “Xavier.”
He looks at me—eyes locked, anxious. “Yeah?”
“Stay and tell them everything. I’ll be alright.”
His jaw tightens. He holds my gaze like he’s trying to will something into my head. Then he exhales, frustrated. “Wait—I’ll at least bring you your phone.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, masking the sharp pulse in my leg as the medics lift me onto the stretcher.
Xavier watches me for a moment, clearly not buying it. He sighs, concern flickering across his face, then turns and disappears into the kitchen.
Willand follows the exchange in silence, eyebrows lifting slightly like he’s just put something together. But he doesn’t say anything—just turns to the paramedics instead.
“Can you make sure nobody touches the knife without gloves? We’re going to need it as evidence—as soon as you get it out, obviously.”
One of the medics throws him a quick, unimpressed look over his shoulder, but gives a nod.
Soon Xavier’s back, pulling on a shirt as he walks, my phone in hand. The paramedics start wheeling me out of the apartment, and he trails right behind them, like he’s half-expecting them to drop the stretcher or bang it against a wall.
When they’re loading me into the ambulance, he reaches in to squeeze my hand, worry etched all over his face.
“You’re going to be alright,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I’ll finish up with Willand and meet you at the hospital.” His eyes flick over me, and he adds, “I’ll bring you some clothes,” like the thought just occurred to him.
“Okay,” I say, squeezing his hand back.
Then the doors shut, and we’re on our way.
***
The knife’s out, thankfully. My thigh gets a thorough cleaning that stings more than I expect, six stitches, and a layer of medical glue to hold everything in place.
After that, the on-call doctor heads off to print my discharge papers, and the nurse gives me a tetanus booster and finishes bandaging my leg.
Then I get a painkiller shot in my right buttock—sharp going in, but the relief is almost immediate.
It’s nearly half past five in the morning, and even though I technically got seven hours of sleep, I can barely keep my eyes open. The exhaustion from the last few days has finally caught up to me.
While I wait for the doctor to come back, I check my phone. No new messages, but Xavier’s been texting every half hour since I left. Now that the cops are finally out of our apartment, I know he’s on his way.
I’m already debating whether to call him—my anxiety helpfully offering worst-case scenarios: Xavier collapsing somewhere on the way here from a mix of stress, lingering intoxication, and what I’m pretty sure (though never confirmed in the chaos of what happened) was a blow to the head from the intruder.
But before I can decide, the doctor returns with my paperwork—and my heart stutters when I see him with her.
Xavier looks a little rumpled and wired, still shaken maybe, holding my backpack—presumably with clothes inside, thank God.
I’m more than done wandering around the hospital in just my underwear.
“Is this your partner?” the doctor asks as they step into the room.
I barely stop my eyebrows from launching skyward.
I love how Xavier just throws that word out without context—because judging by the soft smile the doctor gives him, she’s clearly picturing a very different kind of partner. Not the work kind.
And honestly, I’m in no rush to correct her. Not with how fast my heart’s doing the tectonic dance at the thought.
Still. We might need to talk about that. Eventually.
“Yes, that’s him,” Xavier says, his gaze locking onto mine. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice. “They took the knife out.”
“Good,” Xavier says, relief written all over his face as he walks over to the bed. Then he turns to the doctor. “Can I take him home now?”
She nods, giving him another one of those warm smiles. “Sure. I just need to go over the medication and instructions for rebandaging the leg. You’re welcome to stay and listen.”
Yeah—she definitely thinks we’re that kind of partners.
She walks over and starts explaining the aftercare routine, and Xavier stays by my bed, listening like he’s trying to memorize every word.
In the end, she hands me a few pill bottles and adds, “Keep the wound dry for at least a week. Cover it with plastic if you’re showering.
No strenuous activity for now,” she glances between us with a flicker of a smile, “and that includes sex. You can be creative though—it’s actually great for pain management—but avoid cardio and definitely don’t put too much pressure on that leg. ”
My face burns. I feel like a teenager getting handed a condom in health class. Xavier, on the other hand, doesn’t even blink—just nods politely and says, “Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re welcome.” She hands me the discharge papers and leaves us alone.
Still feeling my face burn, I avoid Xavier’s gaze as I take the backpack from him and unzip it. He packed jeans, a t-shirt, one of my sweaters, socks—and even my shoes, wrapped in a plastic bag.
“Thanks for the clothes,” I say, pulling on the t-shirt, though my voice comes out a little too upbeat, the strain slipping through.
“You okay?” Xavier asks, catching my elbow just as I’m tugging the sweater over my head. I pause, stuck halfway, and meet his eyes.
“Yeah, I’m great,” I say, flashing him a quick smile.
He doesn’t return it. There’s a quiet shift in his expression—concern softening into something almost sad. And shit, now I feel bad. He probably thinks it’s about something else.
“It’s just the doctor,” I mumble, cheeks flaring again. “What she said.”
Xavier lifts an eyebrow. I wince.
“I mean…she assumed we’re going to have sex. That was awkward.”
He watches me for a second. Then says, totally deadpan, “That’s probably because you have two hickeys on your neck.”
I freeze, my insides going cold.
“I have what?”
“Sorry,” Xavier says, though he doesn’t sound even remotely like he means it.
I grab my phone, flip on the front camera, and stare at the two bruises on my neck—one a faded purple, the other still fresh from last night’s taxi ride. God. I can only imagine how many people clocked them between yesterday and today and politely said nothing. Including Willand.
“Jesus,” I mutter, setting the phone down and getting back to putting on my clothes. I’m not exactly mad—just mildly irritated Xavier didn’t mention it sooner. I’m not ashamed it happened, not really. But the fact that my personal life is basically public domain at this point is…deeply annoying.
Xavier stays quiet, just watches me wrestle with the left leg of my jeans. Then, like he snaps out of a daze, he steps in to help.
“I’ve got it,” I mumble, but he ignores me and gently guides the fabric over my bandaged thigh.
Once the jeans are on and zipped, he pulls a pair of socks from the bag and says, “Sit down.”
I blink at the tone—firm though not unkind—but don’t argue. Truth is, there’s no way I’m getting socks or shoes on by myself.
So I sit down and let Xavier do it—legs draped over his lap, his brows slightly drawn, all quiet precision and care.
There’s a warmth blooming in my chest just watching him.
God, a week ago I wouldn’t have believed this version of Xavier even existed.
Not that he wasn’t caring before—but he just always held a part of himself back, like he was afraid to show too much.
I don’t know what changed, what nudged that boundary loose, but knowing I matter to him like this… it’s the best feeling in the world.
When he’s done, he sets my feet gently on the floor and straightens up.
“Thanks,” I say, meeting his eyes with a smile.
Then I remember his head and reach out instinctively. Xavier goes still, not sure what I’m doing—until my fingers thread through his hair and find the bruise at his temple.
“Oh God,” I breathe, brushing his hair aside as I rise on my toes to get a better look. “Xavier, you need to get checked for a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” he says, leaning back slightly to meet my eyes. “He got me with an elbow—it hurt at the time, but I’m okay now. No nausea, no vomiting. It’s not a concussion.”
“Alright,” I sigh.
But before I can say anything else, Xavier cuts in. “Now please—let’s just go home.”