Chapter 12 Sterling #2
I step out and move to her door. It takes a few slow seconds for me to offer her my open palm.
When she doesn’t hesitate to take my hand, my shoulders raise in surprise.
Her touch is too trusting, too warm. It burns straight through my glove.
Keeping my composure, I lead her inside. I don’t let go. I don’t ever want to.
The door seals shut behind us and locks. The world falls away from us with a hiss of steel. She looks around, taking it in. Steel walls. Concrete floors. Black matte paneling. Everything in here is cold and brutal.
I gesture ahead. “This is where we’ll be staying.” Then I show her the kitchen. “Fully stocked. Take what you need.”
She whispers a small “thanks,” and the sound of it lodges in my ribs.
I show her more. The bathroom, and the bedroom at the other end. “It’s yours.”
She stops. “Where will you be?”
“Here.” I motion to the couch.
She nods, but there’s uncertainty in her expression. A question. A weight she doesn’t voice.
I hand her a bottle of water from the fridge. “Avoid the black cans.”
“Why?”
“High stim. Underground blend. Not safe for most.”
“Most,” she repeats. “But you?”
“I don’t sleep much.”
She frowns a bit, her brows furrowing with it.
She looks at me like she cares, like she’s worried.
My chest constricts. My pulse races. Fuck, I should leave.
Give her space. Let her settle. But I don’t.
I only let her hand go. Because she’s giving me that look like she wants to ask about him.
So I say what she wants to hear to make her stay.
“We’ll find Stanley soon.” The words come out smooth, convincing.
She believes me. I watch the hope replace the worry etched on her beautiful face. One that was never meant for any pain. And it kills me, because I’m going to hurt her, when she realizes one day that I was never going to help her find him. So I’m going to make sure she forgets he ever existed.
I should let her get settled. Give her space. Walk away before I make this worse. But I can’t yet. She’s looking at me, with her fingers wrapped too tightly around her silk scarf, still fidgeting with it like she’s still waiting for something. So I give it to her. “Sleep, Elle.”
She nods, heading down the hallway. But soon, I want her to wake up. I want her to claw her way back, piece by piece, until she remembers who she is—not the version Clo dressed up and drugged.
Even if it means, when that moment comes, when she finally sees the truth, she might look at me like I’m the villain in her story. The monster in her memory. But I’d still rather be the monster who pulled her out than the man who left her behind again.
***
In the morning, I wait for her to wake. I linger in the kitchen, listening to her walk around, and then hear the rush of running water. The shuffle of her movements, the creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. They’re the most ordinary sounds, yet they gut me.
Elle makes me forget how to breathe. I drag a hand down my face, needing to stay in motion to focus, so I yank the fridge open. I grab eggs and butter from the top shelf. Then bread from the counter.
I move automatically, turning the burner on. The butter melts with a hiss. I crack open the eggs, letting them sizzle in the pan.
She should be resting, wrapped in real safety. But she’s in withdrawal. She just doesn’t know it yet. From the files I read and from what I’ve seen, I know Kys is a quiet poison. Sweet on the way in, stings on the way out. Elle’s body’s already probably starting to notice its absence.
Withdrawal’s easier if she doesn’t know she’s slipping. I’ll make sure she doesn’t have to feel it, not the way I’ve watched people suffer from this drug. I won’t let that happen to her. If I can take the worst of it for her, I will. I’d do anything.
The toast snaps up. I grab the slices, plate everything in clean motion, just as the bathroom door creaks open. I glance up. And she’s there, paler, shaken, barely steady on her feet. But still undeniably, painfully beautiful.
Elle moves like the world’s spinning too fast beneath her, but there’s elegance even in the way she sways.
Sweat glazes her skin, her forehead damp, strands of hair clinging to her perfect face.
She blinks hard, like she’s fighting to stay upright.
And I can’t stop staring, taking in everything, even the hurt she’s trying to hide.
I set the plate down and breathe out. This is only the beginning. But if I do this right, if I’m careful, she won’t suffer the worst of it. I smooth my expression, even with my mask on, before I cross the space between us. “Eat.”
She stares at me, dazed. “I…don’t feel well.”
I hand her the plate. “I know. Food will help.”
She struggles a bit. So I guide her, my hand on the small of her back, keeping her steady.
I pull a chair out, ease her down into it, and place the fork in her hand.
She doesn’t question it. Because she trusts me.
But if she knew the full truth, maybe she wouldn’t.
That thought kills me more than it should.
Elle picks at her food. Pushes it around her plate.
Nibbles the toast with trembling fingers.
She might think I don’t notice, but I do.
I notice everything about her. The way her shoulders tense.
The way her body fights itself. I’d take it from her if I could.
Every ache. Every tremor. Every goddamn second of it.
Because this is my fault. Because I was too late.
Because if I don’t make this right, I don’t deserve to touch her again.
The silence between us stretches thin. Finally, she exhales softly, setting down the fork like it’s too heavy to hold. Her voice comes out hesitant, careful, and quiet. “Can I…ask for your name?”
I glance up, meeting her eyes. Even though she’s shivering, her eyes on me hold steady. My mask hides how that look alone has me frozen. I can’t answer her right away. Saying it out loud makes this all real, makes me real to her in a way I haven’t been before. But eventually, I say, “Sterling.”
She blinks, dark lashes faltering. “Sterling,” she barely whispers.
The sound of it hits me hard. I like the way she says my name too damn much.
Her eyes drop down slowly. “Do we know each other?”
She asks the question like she’s afraid of the answer. Afraid that she’s lost something she can’t quite place. Maybe memories she’s desperate to remember.
My voice is controlled, but there’s an edge beneath it that I can’t stop. “You don’t remember?”
Her fingers tighten, a faint tremor betraying her composure. “I… I don’t know.” She swallows, a helpless frustration breaking across her face. “I can’t tell what’s real, so if we’ve met before, I’m so—” Her breath hitches softly, eyes squeezing shut briefly. “Everything’s blurry.”
My fists clench under the table. But that has to mean Clo’s grip is slipping.
Elle’s head lowers, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
I go still. “For what?”
“For not remembering.” Pink stains her cheeks. “For not knowing if…I should trust you.”
I hide my reaction, even though that hits me like a physical blow. It’s well-deserved, so I lean back, voice even despite the pain in my chest. “You shouldn’t trust me,” I say, the truth slipping out rougher than I intend. “But I’ll prove you can.”
Her lips press together. Her eyes skim over me, lingering too long on the mask, curious and searching. “Why do you wear a mask?”
I don’t answer right away again. But my silence only seems to deepen her curiosity.
She shuffles in her seat. “Is it…comfortable?”
My brows knit. I blink slowly, startled. “You’re asking if my mask is comfortable?”
Her cheeks turn into a deeper pink. “I don’t know. I just… I’d feel bad if you’re wearing it because of me.”
I go utterly still. Elle sits across from me, pale and shaking, caught in the silent torture of withdrawal, and she’s worrying about me. My throat tightens with a sting. “I’m used to it,” I say dismissively.
Her voice is even gentler. “Do you wear it because you don’t trust me?”
Her question pierces through me, completely unexpected.
I don’t trust anyone. It’s a lesson I learned young, carved deep into my bones by Clo’s hand.
Trust is a weakness. But Elle has become the only exception.
The one person I want to trust. The only one I’ve allowed myself to hope might trust me in return.
I should give her a real answer. But instead, I rise abruptly, lifting her barely touched plate and set it down closer to her. “You should finish eating,” I say firmly, shutting down the conversation before I lose what little control I have left. “Then you should rest some more.”
My eyes meet her confused gaze. I want to give her everything she wants, but right now, I can’t afford to let her see what she does to me.
It’s too raw, too soon. She’s recovering from being drugged and brainwashed.
And if I had to be honest, I might just let the words fly out of me.
That this mask is the only thing stopping me from losing myself completely in her.
She doesn’t deserve that, not after what she’s been through.
And with the plate closer to her, she doesn’t stall.
She just eats at a snail’s pace. I watch the tremor in her fingers as she lifts the fork.
The way she chews like she’s practicing the motion.
I see the sweat dotting her brow, the tension in her raised shoulders, the discomfort behind her eyes. She knows something’s wrong.
I should’ve had a better plan. Should’ve mapped out every hour of this, every symptom, every way her body would break down before it could start to build itself back up.
If I could take the hurt from her, I would.
I’d carry every ounce of pain for her. But I can’t, so I do the only thing I can.
I lie to her with silence. I make her think she isn’t suffering.
I spend the entire day hovering at the edges of her discomfort, occupying her time, steering her attention, keeping her warm, making sure she drinks water even when she insists she’s fine.
I fill the air with my distorted voice when she needs noise and vanish into quiet when she doesn’t.
And she lets me. She lets me take care of her.
I hate how much I want that. How much I need it. How much of myself I lose when I’m close to her, when I don’t deserve any of it at all. But god…do I want.
***
By sunset, the sun slides down behind the bunker’s tinted windows, casting light across the matte-dark walls. In bed, she’s curled beneath one of the thick blankets I set out earlier, skin clammy, lids heavy, her breathing shallow but even.
I hand her another damp cloth. Her fingers barely grip around it. And then, she says the one thing I didn’t want her to ask. “When are we going to find Stan?”
Even now, when it’s my hands soothing her, my voice grounding her, my body between hers and the world—it’s still him she’s thinking about. I should’ve been ready. I wasn’t.
I take the cloth from her and wring it out.
The basin of warm water splatters. My movements are steady and precise.
I don’t let the sting show. My mask hides the fire igniting in my eyes.
It does a good job hiding my feelings. When I meet her eyes again, she’s watching me with this quiet hope, as if she’s hinging on the belief that I’ll tell her what she wants to hear.
So I do. I press the cloth to her forehead, voice low. “We’ll find him.”
Her eyes flutter closed, and she tilts into my touch. “Soon?”
My entire body freezes. I think I stop breathing. I hate that she’s thinking of him while I’m the one holding her together. How fucking pathetic that it’s always been like this for me, watching from the outside, like it was with my family.
It’s so much worse with her. Because with Elle, I don’t want to win. I just want to be enough. My head moves in a stiff nod, and her eyes light up, even when her face is drenched in sweat.
Her lashes lower, and she nods back. “Okay,” she breathes more than say.
That one word feels like mercy and damnation at the same time. I stay beside her, my fingers lightly reaching over her pulse. It’s weak, but steady.
She whispers, almost to herself, “You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”
She makes it sound like she doesn’t know she already owns me. I stay still, letting her drift to sleep. “I know.”
But I don’t stop touching her. My hand stays on her wrist, keeping track of her pulse. I don’t ever want to let her go, now that I finally have her.