Chapter 13 Sterling #2
I narrow my eyes at the screen. The trespasser steps up, pausing at the perimeter.
Fuck this guy. I turn and run to Elle’s room, pushing the door open with one hand, the other already reaching for her. She’s still in bed, tangled in sweat-damp blankets. Her breath is shallow, her body twitching from withdrawal, vulnerable and unaware.
I press a hand to her shoulder. “Elle.”
She stirs, eyes fluttering open with effort. Her confused, frowning lips move, barely a whisper. “Sterling?”
“I’m here.” My voice stays calm, even with my adrenaline rising. “But I have to move you.”
She frowns even more, slow to track the urgency in my words. “What…? What’s happening?”
I don’t waste time explaining. I slide one arm beneath her back, the other under her knees, and lift her carefully. She’s too light in my arms. I feel every tremble, every weakness she can’t hide. But she clings to me anyway.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Somewhere safer,” I say, moving fast down the hallway.
I adjust my grip to let her head rest against my chest. Her breath brushes my collarbone.
My jaw tightens. My heart hammers. Then she leans into me without thinking.
Without knowing what that means. Even like this, weak and feverish, she trusts me.
That trust lodges somewhere deep in my chest, just shy of breaking me.
I reach the hidden door and press my hand to the biometric panel. It scans quick. The lock disengages with a hiss. I move fast, ducking us inside. The air is cooler here. Reinforced concrete and steel packed thick into every wall. No windows. No way in or out but this one door.
I lower her onto a cot. She clings to my shirt with fingers that tremble from exhaustion, her grip desperate. I take her hand, gently and carefully. I pry her fingers free one by one, even though I don’t want to. Even though it feels like I’m cutting off pieces of me.
I put the blanket on her, sealing in what warmth I can. Her eyes track mine, wide, bleary, and beautiful. I look away before I can’t.
I have to shut the door first. The mechanism seals with a thud as I lock it.
We’re sealed away behind steel. I check the outside feed on my wristwatch.
The screen is small but clear enough. The biker’s walking closer to the front.
But Elle and I are all the way in the back, behind walls that are practically bulletproof.
And it looks like we got here right on time, because the asshole outside swings out a goddamn tommy gun.
As soon as he levels the gun, he immediately opens fire, aimed right at the warehouse facade.
The sound explodes through, even reaching this panic room.
Rounds shred through the front. The walls rattle.
The cot shakes. My adrenaline spikes, blood pounding in my ears.
Fists clenched, nails biting into my palms. This place is off-grid, unfindable.
It’s a fortress. It’s mine. So how the hell did he find us?
My jaw locks until pain stabs into my temple.
I pace the room. Four steps to the cot. Four steps back.
I can feel the fury pressing against my skin.
Breathing too loud. Thoughts too fast. I disappear for a living.
I vanish. I erase my footprints before I make them.
But something slipped. Somewhere, I missed something.
Hearing Elle’s nearly silent wince, I glance down at her, seeing her shiver wildly from her fever and the cool steel we’re in. She lies on the cot but doesn’t stir much. She hasn’t lost her composure, even after what Clo’s done to her.
Clo. I clench my jaw, the fury seeping deeper into my bones.
That’s why the biker’s here. Because Clo sent him.
And it’s not me the biker’s here for. He’s here to take Elle away from me.
Clo wants her back, and she tracked us somehow.
She’s meticulous and sadistic. She knows just how to get under my skin—
My stomach drops. Ice floods my chest. I take in Elle. She still hasn’t moved. She’s curled on her side, skin pale against the harsh light. With a cold realization and my scowl out in the open, I realize that whatever Clo used to track Elle…is inside Elle.
I fall to my knees beside her. My hands tremor and hover over her ankle, then trail higher, slowly pushing up the cuff of her sweatpants.
Faint pink lines trail across her calves.
There they are. The faint burns. Old, half-healed scars, mapped across her soft skin.
The ache in my chest twists sharp, a sick pull in my ribs.
I shouldn’t be the one touching these scars. But I can’t stop.
My fingers tremble, tracing the edges of one barely visible burn. Her skin is warm beneath my bare hands, fragile in a way that makes my throat close. Elle doesn’t remember the fire. Or what it cost her. What it made of me.
Her lashes flutter, eyes dazed. “Sterling…”
Her voice is breathless, sounding so trusting. I close my eyes, trying to breathe, but my name from her lips cuts right through me. The gunfire fades behind reinforced walls, muffled into background noise. It’s irrelevant when the real threat to harm Elle is right here—me.
Elle slowly sits up, looking at me like I hold all the answers. I want to give it all to her. But right now, we need to figure out how we’re being tracked. She must see it since my face is uncovered. My guilt, my failure, all laid bare. There’s nothing left for me to hide behind.
“Forgive me, Elle,” I say, low and rough. The words scrape into me. I don’t wait for an answer. I already know what I have to do.
I look down at her. Her eyes open wider, but they’re glassy with exhaustion. My pulse kicks harder, searing more urgency under my ribs.
“I need to roll your pants up. Okay, Elle?”
She blinks slowly, eyes still unfocused, but she nods without hesitation. “Okay.”
That single word slices deeper than it should. She shouldn’t trust me like this, so blindly, without question. But I crave it, the sickening thrill of her absolute surrender. It smolders the fire in my chest.
I peel the fabric back, slow and precise, until the edge catches against her knee. The grafts come into clearer view beneath the harsh light. My throat tightens sharply, guilt landing deep, but I shove it aside. No time for feelings. Not right now when I need to find what Clo put in Elle.
My fingers tremble as I run them along the scarred flesh, searching for something Clo would have buried deep, beneath trauma and memory.
After a moment that feels like forever, my fingers find a tiny, unnatural bump under her skin.
Rage singes through me, white-hot and furious.
I hiss between my teeth, retrieving a knife from my pocket, flicking it open.
“Elle,” I force out, my voice harsh with barely restrained fury. “I need to cut this out.”
She exhales, slightly shaky, but her glassy gaze holds mine. “Okay.”
She shouldn’t let me. She shouldn’t trust me this much. My chest tightens painfully at the thought. Kys is still in her veins, clouding her, or maybe she believes in me. For now, holding onto hope is enough to steady my hands.
I press the blade carefully against her skin. She sucks in a quick, sharp breath when I slice cleanly through the graft.
It’s all muscle memory for me, I tell myself, even if it takes all of me to stop my trembling hands.
Blood wells up her leg, crimson spilling slowly over her pale skin, vivid and accusing. The guilt and anguish rise so fast it blinds me. I’ve never reacted this way after I’ve cut someone else open. But it’s me hurting her again. Even if it’s to save her, I keep hurting her.
Forcing myself to get it the fuck together, I feel the quelch of her warm muscle.
My fingers dig carefully, just deep enough until I finally grab hold of that damn tracker.
And when I do, I pinch it between my fingers, fury flashing through me as I untangle it free from her flesh with a few more precise, swift cuts from my pocketknife.
Her breath hitches with every flick of my wrist, her eyes widening and snapping into clarity with every cut and every drop of her blood on my fingers.
I hold the tracker up for her to see, dripping red. “Clo did this to you,” I growl, shaking with violent rage I can hardly suppress.
She stares at it, confusion and fear flickering across her face. I crush the tracker in my fist before I realize I’m doing it. Clo will pay for this. Elle won’t ever be hunted again. I’ll make sure of it.
I move across the room in a blur, rip the first-aid kit open, and dig for a needle and thread.
My fingers won’t cooperate. The tools slip.
The spool unwinds. I curse under my breath and try again, still trembling like a damn rookie.
Frustration chokes me, tears of anger stinging my eyes.
My mask is gone, so there’s nothing to shield me from her stare.
Still, I kneel beside her, hands shaking, breath unsteady. It’s just a simple stitch. I’ve done this a hundred times before, but never on her. Because it’s Elle. And hurting her shatters me.
I’ve stitched worse wounds. Done it with broken ribs, with bullets still inside me. But this is Elle. I can’t keep hurting her. With a rough inhale, I try to steady the needle, but my fingers slip, unable to keep a grip.
“Fuck,” I whisper, deep and desperate.
Elle watches me, pale and wobbling, but a bit clear-eyed now. She reaches for the needle. Her hands are slower than mine, but so much steadier. I watch her in awe when she takes it from my hands.
“Elle—”
“It’s okay,” she whispers.
Then she easily slides the thread through the eye of the needle. Bending down over her own bleeding leg, she pierces herself. Her hands flow, careful stitches closing the wound I created.
I watch every torturous second. My lungs barely move. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t have to fix what I broke. I’ve never felt this fucking useless. And I hate myself for it. But I—
I love her.
The realization hits me like a gunshot. One I can’t dodge. One that hits me straight in my beating chest.
I love her.
The thought burns through my chest, fierce and unrelenting, searing everything else away. I never knew love, not from anyone who should’ve taught me what it meant. I never understood it, until now.
Until Elle, who’s stitching herself up without complaint, who trusts me even when I’m the blade who cut into her skin. All while she’s fighting against withdrawals from drugs forced down her throat.
My heart slams violently in my chest, the truth tearing through me. I love her. And now, I can’t imagine a single day without earning her trust. Earning her.