14. Chapter fourteen
Chapter fourteen
Max
T he look on his face when he steps inside is worth every secret I’ve ever kept.
His mouth parts, eyes wide, taking it all in.
The big bed in the center of the massive bedroom, the soft couch slouched in the corner, cabinets lining the walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the entire side of the room.
During the day, the view is spectacular. Cliffs dropping into the ocean, sunlight flooding through glass. Now the moon takes over, pouring silver into the room until everything glows like it’s underwater, shadows sharp against the walls.
“Is that a tub ? Does it have running water?”
On the right, pressed up against the windows, sits a massive tub. It’s deep enough to sink into, big enough for two if you want. When I nod, his stare sharpens, like he’s walked into some godsdamn palace.
“It’s…” He can’t finish. Just shakes his head, hair catching the moonlight, and lets out a quiet laugh. “You’ve been hiding this.”
“Obviously,” I say. “If people knew about this place, I would be hosting.”
“Would earn you a pretty coin,” he answers, a little chuckle riding his words. “How is this even possible?”
I shrug. “I’m told houses like this were pretty common before.
Summer getaway for rich folk, probably. When I found it, everything was still covered in plastic.
” I gesture toward the furniture, which is in perfect condition.
“It’s entirely self-sufficient. The pipes come from a spring in the mountain.
Electricity’s solar, hooked to an old battery bank I patched up.
Even after all these years, it was untouched.
I coaxed it back to life. The entire place is quality craftsmanship. ”
I unholster my gun and set it on a low cabinet.
It’s stuffed with the scavenged mess I’ve dragged up here over the years: tins of food, stale crackers, shit I traded for on the docks.
And books. Piles of them, stacked in uneven towers.
Things I’ll never admit I actually read, but I keep hauling more up here, anyway.
It’s a hoard, a home. But it’s mine.
Kieran steps farther in, blue eyes wide. His fingers trail over a stack of books, over a bottle of red, over the edge of the cabinet. He looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or be impressed. Probably both.
“You live here?”
“You know I don’t.” I roll my shoulders, unclip the straps that hold my swords and let the leather fall loose beside the pistol. “Only when I need to get the fuck away. When the itch gets too bad, or the city gets too loud.”
“And they let you?” he says, eyebrows arched.
“They need me.” The words come out sharp, bitter, automatic.
“Roe knows it. The Nine know it. I can go off-grid when I want, because what the fuck are they gonna do? Throw me in the Pit again? Make the crowd love me more? Besides that, they also need my eyes on the wall. I go first when Walkers come up the shore, when things breach. I take the bite so people don’t have to. And they need my blood.”
I don’t have to explain. The tag at my throat does it for me: Immune.
Kieran glances at the tub again. His voice drops. “So you come here and take a bath ?”
“Yeah.” I smirk, light a smoke, let it burn in my lungs before I exhale slowly. “After I butcher up a bunch of Walkers. Don’t tell anyone. They’d laugh at me.”
“Like you’d care about that…” His voice trails as he moves closer to the tub, and crouches at the edge.
His fingers skim the faucet gingerly before he turns it on, and I watch the shiver run up his arm when a thin stream of water pours out.
He cups a little in his hands, brings it to his lips, and drinks.
For a second I think he might cry.
“Gods, Max…” His voice comes out rough, like he hasn’t seen anything like this in years. Which I know he hasn’t. “Can you heat it up?”
“Tweak the left valve, then shut off the right if it gets too hot,” I tell him, leaning back against the wall, smoke curling as I watch him fumble with the tub like I’m seeing him for the first time. Golden boy in my den, looking like he belongs here.
And fuck me if that thought doesn’t feel dangerous.
For a while he just crouches there, fingertips skimming the surface as the basin fills, watching the way the water eats the light. His shoulders give a tiny shake, a shudder he tries to hide, but I catch it anyway. It’s human. It’s fragile.
“You’ve been keeping this to yourself,” he says finally, looking back at me. There’s no accusation, just quiet wonder. “The whole city fights over scraps, taps cut off half the time, and you’ve got this.”
“Yeah. If anyone finds out, it’s gone.” My jaw tightens, smoke curling between my teeth. “This is mine. Only mine. And I guess yours now, too.”
He studies me for a long second, eyes searching, then glances back at the tub. “It feels… untouched. Like the world before.”
Something in me twists sharp. I drag hard on my smoke, burn it right down until the filter bites my lips. “The world before’s dead. Don’t fool yourself.”
But he doesn’t flinch at the bite. He just runs his wet fingers over the side of his neck, droplets sliding down his skin, catching in the hollow of his throat. My gaze sticks there longer than it should.
He notices. Of course he does. His mouth tilts, like he’s deciding whether to push. Then he peels his shirt off, slowly, and something in me stutters—chest tight, pulse hitching like I forgot how to breathe.
When he shrugs it aside, I see what’s underneath. Not fragile at all, but all lean muscle. His skin smooth, undamaged, nothing like mine. No scars, no wreckage. Not ruined.
“You mind?” he asks, already kicking his stupid flip-flops off.
“Do I look like I mind?” My voice comes out rougher than I wanted, low in my chest.
He huffs a laugh, nervous and pleased all at once, then strips down further until his clothes are just a heap beside him.
I want to say I don’t stare at his ass, but fuck me, I do .
He doesn’t notice my eye-fucking, just steps into the tub, lowers himself slowly, and sinks until he’s completely submerged.
The forgotten cigarette scorches my fingers, snapping me out of it. I hiss, shake my hand, and crush it in the ashtray on the dresser. But my gaze swings right back to him, locked like a magnet.
I can’t stop staring. The way he tips his head back, hair plastered to his temples, throat bared to the ceiling, and lets out a sound that rattles through the room. Relief. Pleasure. Awe.
I don’t move from where I’m leaning, but my pulse is a drum in my ears. This is my house, my tub, my secret. And he’s lying in it like it belongs to him.
And shit, part of me knows it does.
I watch. I have to. The muscle shifts across his arms when he moves, every line cut fine as a blade. My gaze drags lower, to his chest, the faint shimmer across his skin where the light grazes it.
Dammit. I don’t know how long I can keep this wall up. He keeps worming his way through cracks I didn’t even fucking know I had, stripping me bare without lifting a finger. Every second I let him stay, I’m choosing him over the monster in my chest.
And gods help me, I don’t want to stop. I want to let him in. To let him see the parts no one else survives. To let him touch the pieces I swore I’d keep locked away.
And maybe he could handle it. Hell, maybe he’s the only one who can. He’s already carrying monsters of his own now… There’s blood on his hands, a first kill that’ll never wash off.
Quite literally. He still had some stains in the cracks of his knuckles, the shadows of it under his nails.
He took a quick shower back at his room, but not all of it washed away. Watching him now wash his skin, hair, feels like watching the night peel off, like some part of him is being rinsed clean and left bare in the water.
When he’s done, something shifts in his expression. Subtle, like a shadow moving across his face, but I catch it. The smile falls, his eyes go darker, and it’s there… all of it. The weight, the shock, the truth of what happened tonight finally breaking through.
First kill.
He lies there in my tub, shoulders taut, jaw tight, like he’s contemplating if he should sink further under the water, let go, or shatter.
And I don’t know how to help him. I’ve bled men dry, broken skulls open like fruit, walked out of the Pit with nine corpses behind me.
But I don’t know how to reach across this space between us. I don’t know how to make this right.
So I just watch, throat locked, chest burning.
But when a wrack suddenly tears through him, shoulders jerking, followed by a sound that’s damn near broken, I move.
I kick off my heavy boots, strip out of my blood-stained clothes piece by piece, and shove it all into the corner.
The room is all shadow, lit only by the spill of starlight through the windows. The water in the tub gleams silver in the dark, lapping soft against his waist where he sits hunched, hands curled into fists against his face like he’s trying to punch the pain right out of himself.
Something in me cracks at the sight of it. I want something I’ve never wanted with anyone before. I want to soothe, to help, to make it better.
I step in. The water is warm, wrapping around my legs as I sink down, ripples spreading until they reach him. He startles when I pull him into my lap, the tub just wide enough that he ends up straddling me. His eyes are wide, glassy, lost.
And just like that, the calm I felt after I culled my demons is gone. Replaced by that tingle that always crawls under my skin when he’s near. The one I can’t fight. The one I don’t even want to anymore.
My hand finds his throat, fingers curling firm around it, thumb pressing into the steady thrum-thrum-thrum of his pulse. He stiffens at first—instinct—then exhales, shaky, and I feel him soften under my grip. The weight of my hand anchors him instead of threatening.