Chapter 13 Sterling
Sterling
The next day’s here. I still haven’t slept. All I want to do is focus on taking care of Elle. Feeding her. Wiping the sweat off her brow. Giving her more of my clean clothes. Making sure she rests as much as possible.
Hours pass by fast. But I don’t mind at all. I’m always at Elle’s side, exactly where I want to be.
The sun sinks low quickly today, already casting shadows across the floor.
It’s around this time, some nights ago, that I first held her, in my arms, where she belongs.
And now I’m sitting in silence, chasing every second I can get with her.
Showing her that she doesn’t need Stanley, doesn’t need Clo, or the twisted dream they forced her into.
Right now, Elle’s trembling in bed while I’m seated in a chair near her.
The withdrawal’s digging deeper inside her now.
Her chest jerks on an inhale. Her fingers clench and twitch in the folds of the blanket she’s buried beneath.
And there’s the silent, strangled sounds she tries to swallow.
She’s fighting it. She thinks she has to do this alone.
“Elle,” I whisper barely above a breath.
She doesn’t look at me. She folds in on herself. “I don’t… I don’t need—” Her voice breaks around the words she’s struggling to say.
“You do.” My tone cuts through, quiet and sharp. “Let me help you.”
She hesitates, her pursed lips quivering like she wants to argue. Even now, she still tries to be the strong one. The one who doesn’t need anyone, now that Kys is leaving her system, no longer making her docile.
I move closer, cautious. I sit at the edge of the bed. I let my presence fill the space between us, a promise without words.
Her breath stutters. “I can handle it,” she says.
Liar. She’s barely holding herself together. And this isn’t even the worst of it. It’s just the start.
I reach for the cloth sitting in a basin of water. I wring it out and bring it to her forehead. She quivers when the warm dampness touches her skin, but she doesn’t move away.
“This isn’t something you get through alone,” I tell her as tender as I can. “You don’t have to.”
Her eyes waver, lashes trembling with the effort to stay open. I catch the look in her eyes in that instant. It’s doubt, not in me, but in herself. She doesn’t know how to let anyone do this for her when drugs aren’t being constantly pumped in her system.
I grit my teeth, glad the mask hides my sour expression. I focus on her, and I brush my fingers across her wrist to check her pulse. It’s there, but shallow and uneven. I force a breath out of me. She’ll be okay, I remind myself. I’m the one taking care of her now.
Her lips part like she wants to speak, but nothing comes.
Moving closer to her, I lower myself until I’m in front of her.
I need to be the only thing she looks at right now.
I raise my hand slowly. She doesn’t stop me.
I let my knuckles brush her cheek, enough to feel the heat of her skin.
The fever under the surface. The way her breath catches when I touch her.
Her eyes search mine, even behind my mask. My thumb drags gently along her jaw. She leans in, unthinking. I stay there, holding that moment with her, watching the fight drain slowly from her limbs.
She doesn’t say anything at first. And then, her voice comes out soft, despite her aches and pain. “Sterling…”
It shouldn’t mean anything. But my name from her lips burns through me. I feel it everywhere, her voice saying my name like it belongs to her. Like I belong to her. Because I fucking do. I have.
She doesn’t even know what she’s done to me. It makes the wanting so much worse. I want to touch her, kiss her, claim her. But I don’t act on it. Not right now, because I want her clear-eyed, consciously choosing me. So I stay still.
Her fingers twitch like she wants to reach for me, but doesn’t know how. “Can I ask…?” she mumbles.
I nod, ignoring the way my chest tugs at every word she says to me.
Her gaze lingers on my face, on my mask. “Will you…take it off?”
My muscles tense. I don’t answer or move. I need to be careful. I need to understand what she’s really asking.
But then her gaze drops. “It’s just… I want to see your eyes better. They seem comforting.”
Comforting. The word lodges in my chest like a knife turned inward. I know what she means. I know what she’s remembering. Stanley. We have the same stupid eyes Kai handed down to us.
My jaw ticks. The warmth I felt moments ago becomes a bitter chill.
“You think so?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
She nods, barely. “They look like…” She cuts herself off. But I already know. It’s him.
I should let it slide. Tell myself this isn’t her fault. That Clo did this to her. That it’s just the drugs, the rewriting. But I can’t. Because deep down, I don’t want her to think of him when she looks at me. I want her to think of me. To see me.
Rage smolders inside me and dies. Panic takes its place, clawing at my ribs. What if she looks at me and regrets asking? What if all she sees is everything I’m not that he is? Stanley’s warm charm. I’m cold ache. I come with blood on my gloves and ghosts in my past.
Still, my hand hovers over my mask. My other hand twitches against the strap on the back. “Are you sure?” I ask.
She meets my eyes, piercing right into me. “Yes.”
Something breaks loose inside me. A tether snapped.
And I know I’d do anything she asked me in this moment.
So, without another thought, I remove the mask.
Cool air hits my face, and I brace for the recoil in her expression.
The fear, regret, or worse. But it never comes.
She just looks at me. And then she reaches out with the barest touch, her fingers on my jaw, light as breath, but it absolutely scorches.
“Say something,” I whisper, sounding too raw, practically pleading.
Her lashes flutter. “I…was right.”
I tense. “About what?”
“Your eyes…they’re comforting,” she whispers. “And your voice…so much better when it’s clearer.”
Everything in me coils, then melts. Her words slide through the cracks in my armor. She meant it. Somehow, she meant it. She looks at me like I’m safe, like I’m hers. It’s all I want to be.
Her eyes flutter closed, a smile tugging at her lips. I just sit there, watching her and burning with need. I don’t move. I barely breathe. She keeps making me fumble, making me feel.
I rise slowly and walk away. I give her the privacy of the room—everywhere is hers now—because I want her to know I’ll protect her space, her silence, her trust.
And maybe, deeper than I’ll admit, I just need a moment to breathe.
She’s not afraid of me. That should be enough.
It has to be. I keep repeating that as I walk into the kitchen.
As I pace, mask in my hand, the imprint of her touch still burning against my jaw.
She isn’t afraid. That means I’m doing something right. Right?
Then why does it hurt? Why does it feel like her quiet trust is torching me from the inside out? Why does her softness cut me worse than a blade ever could?
I tell myself this is part of the plan. That I’ve gotten her out. That I’m keeping her safe. But the truth is—I want more. So much more. And that’s the part I don’t know what to do with.
***
By night, my mask’s still off. I’m sitting in a chair outside her room. My elbows rest on my knees, my hands laced, my thoughts fixed on one thing.
Elle. She’s on the other side of this door, wrapped in blankets and haze, her body fighting what Clo did to her, what Stanley let happen. And I’m here. Because she’s mine to protect now. Because I need to be here for her.
The safe house is quiet. And I can’t tear my eyes from the door. From the space where I last saw her, resting against the pillow, fevered, and whispering my name. It didn’t sound like a cry for help. It sounded like a prayer.
I press my knuckles to my mouth, trying to force the aching desire down. I want to go back in there, slide into the sheets beside her, feel her warmth against me.
But then my ears pick up on a sudden sound. It should be silent here, especially at night. No one knows about this place. But the sound is definitely heading this way.
I hear a rumbling sound in the distance, coming closer and closer, when everything around me should be quiet.
At first, it feels like a fever-dream echo. From lack of sleep, maybe. Or from downing too many underground energy drinks. But no. It’s getting closer. Louder.
No one should be here. No one should know this place exists. Elle is resting. There shouldn’t be any goddamn noise.
I check the custom watch on my wrist. It was an offhanded gift from my contact when I took down my thousandth mark.
I didn’t have use for anything sentimental then, but I’ve been wearing the watch to keep exact track of when Elle should eat, drink, and sleep.
And now it’s handy for another reason. I click its side buttons swiftly until I see a camera feed.
In the grainy, tiny monitor, I can see a motorcycle heading here fast.
I’m on my feet, silent as instinct takes over. I sprint down the hall, to the corner of monitors. The glow hits my face as the feed flickers on.
The bike’s even clearer from these security cameras’ angles. The camera feed crackles as the bike screeches to a stop. A tall, helmeted figure slips into frame. There’s no hesitation in his stride when he walks up to the warehouse front.
My pulse spikes. Everything inside me feels like it’s roaring into flames, ready to burn the intruding bastard down. No one should have even known we’re here. So how the fuck does he?
I focus on the man on the screen. Whoever this is, they’re fucked if they think they can just come in here.
He doesn’t even take his helmet off, even with the tinted visor on at night.
What a fucking douche. I wish this moron was Stanley, but that idiot doesn’t wear a helmet.
Except when Elle asked him to. That fucker. She’s mine.