Chapter 2 Xaden #15
I can’t help myself. I take a step forward, looking at Keith. “By the way? You kept calling Xaden my ex. There’s nothing ‘ex’ about him. He’s my boyfriend . And he’s going to make sure that you and every last one of your horrible friends end up in prison.”
My voice is steadier than I feel. But I draw strength from my own words, like the mere idea of Xaden makes me stand a little taller.
Kate marches Keith out, reading his rights.
Frankie’s almost out the door, too, shotgun lowered. He gives me an oddly intense look. “You mean it? About Xaden?”
“Of course. We just had a blip.”
Frankie almost smiles. “You did good, kid. Kept your head.”
His words pull me back to his garage. I remember watching Xaden bend over the hood of a truck, muscles flexing under his shirt.
I used to visit him at Frankie’s when he was helping around, thinking I’d happily spend the rest of my life handing him wrenches I couldn’t even name.
Xaden didn’t care that I was useless around cars, he liked me there.
Once he smeared grease on my cheek and told me that got me covered.
“You look like a pro mechanic now, although much cuter than average.” That made Frankie groan and Eli tell us how Xaden’s mom used to make him blush just by smiling a certain way.
Now, standing here, blood still roaring in my ears from how I just stood up to Keith, I realize something: maybe Frankie’s been rooting for me all along, in his own gruff way, just like he’s been rooting for Xaden.
Frankie slips out, and the sudden silence drops like a weight.
My tea is still cold. My hands still shake.
This was just a taste of the danger Xaden’s been through. Every day. Taunts, threats, walking the wire between blowing his cover and staying alive.
Trying to deal with the loss of his dad. All the while thinking he lost me too.
I can’t wait to see him.
I want to tell him I love him. Respect him. Miss him. Want him.
For the rest of my life.
“Just a blip?” A tired voice from the hall makes me whirl around.
“Xaden?” He’s smiling faintly, but his face is bloodied. His shirt’s untucked, collar stained dark. For a second I think it’s just shadow. Then I realize it’s not.
It’s blood.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He tries to grin, but he staggers, catching the doorframe. His knuckles leave a bloody smear as he fights to stay upright.
“Xaden!” I repeat, but now my voice is a panicked crack. He gives me another stubborn half-grin, but it slips when he sways again. This time I’m already there, catching him as his knees buckle. The weight of him folds me down to the floor with him, my hands slipping against his blood-soaked shirt.
Not a gunshot, I realize through the rising panic — cuts, bruises, but no gaping wound. Still enough blood to make my heart stop.
“You’re bleeding,” I choke out.
His lips twitch. “Just a flesh wound.”
“Don’t joke,” I whisper, gripping him tighter. Then his eyes roll back and he goes slack in my arms.
XADEN
I’m barely aware of what’s happening. My torso feels like it’s on fire, my face one big throb. The adrenaline's leaking out fast, leaving me shaky, light-headed, heavier than my own body.
I finally convinced Keller I needed to see Cole now. He kept saying Cole’s safe, but I had to see it with my own eyes.
Not just that Cole’s alive and safe. That he’s okay.
I didn't expect to walk in while he was telling Frankie we “just had a blip,” like Frankie was silly for even asking.
I didn’t expect my knees to give out right after.
Now I’m stretched on Cole’s couch with a medic leaning over me. He’s stitching my cheek — or maybe sticking acupuncture needles for all I can tell.
I’ve had a shot of pain relief, but nothing beats the real medicine: Cole gripping my hand.
His grip isn’t just protective. It’s desperate. I can tell he’s trying to be the calm one, but every tremor gives him away. Fury, fear, love he can’t quite cage.
He thinks I’m asleep when he leans in and whispers that he loves me. His voice shakes just a little. My chest burns hotter than my ribs when he goes scarlet after I open my eyes and whisper that I love him too.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering just long enough that I feel how badly he wants more.
I can’t wait until I’m healed enough to kiss him back the way I want.
Kate’s voice drifts in from somewhere above my head, recommending a kale smoothie recipe. Cole listens in horrified silence.
“You’d make a great team with Caspian,” he mutters.
“Yes, he did mention your high caffeine intake,” Kate says smoothly. “Among other health issues.”
I huff a laugh but regret it immediately when it pulls my ribs.
“You’ve upset the patient,” Cole says, glaring at Kate like she’s prescribed me arsenic.
“Shouldn’t you be in the guest room, sleeping?
I thought you were all about healthy lifestyle choices.
” There’s too much heat in his voice for it to be just annoyance.
He’s not only snapping at her, he’s protecting me with all that he’s got.
Kate gets the hint and retreats upstairs soon after.
Drifting in and out of sleep, I feel Cole easing down beside me, careful but close enough that our legs touch. He strokes my hair slowly, like he’s reassuring himself I’m still here.
I close my eyes, feeling an odd floating sensation, not sure if I’m awake or asleep.
I think Cole’s singing, but that must be a dream.
Or a hallucination. Or a memory, because he’s singing This Night, but he sounds exactly like then — my eighteenth birthday, him pale with nerves and clutching his guitar like a shield.
Back then, I couldn’t believe he’d remembered, carried a detail from our drive up to Pisgah.
My favorite track that year, the one I’d played on repeat just to see him roll his eyes and then secretly hum along.
Back then, when he had finished singing, flustered and perfect, Dad showed up with his lopsided cake and tried to cover the fact he was misting up.
Did that really happen just now, or is the memory playing tricks on me? I swear I can smell the cheap frosting.
Cole’s hand is wrapped around mine, thumb tracing. He’s braver than he was then, but I can hear the same tremor under the note. Still, he draws courage from the song, like always, and the more he sings, the steadier he gets.
I whisper, rough and broken, “You’re gonna kill me, Hudson.”
His eyes dart to mine, startled that I’m awake.
“You sing that and I’m right back in that tent at Pisgah,” I murmur, lips tugging even through the ache. “The hottest night of my life.”
Color floods his cheeks. “Stop it.”
“Best time ever,” I add, teasing him. Loving the way his breath hitches. He leans down then, pressing another soft kiss to my forehead. Tender. Restrained. But the heat in his eyes promises the rest, once I’m healed.
I drift again. At least I think so because no way in hell did Cole just whisper: “FYI: our hottest night hasn’t happened yet.”
My pulse spikes. Dream or not, I’ll be holding onto that.
COLE
Xaden’s sprawled on the couch like gravity finally won.
One arm covers the side of his face that didn’t need stitches, his chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of real rest. The bruising along his ribs is still visible, though, and every time I look at it, a fresh wave of fury hits.
When I saw what they’d done to him, to my beautiful, gentle Xaden, I had violent thoughts for the first time in my life.
I’ve been up for hours, unable to settle. Kate’s gone now, but we swapped numbers. Mom will drop Noah home after lunch. The house feels too still and too quiet without Noah running around with his toys.
Suddenly my eyes land on the old shoebox Frankie brought in last night. He said Xaden asked him to deliver it. Just in case.
The lid is already loose, like it’s inviting me to look. If he wanted me to have it anyway, I can open it, right?
I lift the lid. Chaos.
The box is full of yellow post-its, some so old they’re curling at the edges. Dozens of half-torn, coffee-stained, folded, sticky notes — old and new. All written in Xaden’s neat hand. What is this box? And how badly is it going to ruin me?
The first note is harmless enough:
The vending machine here only sells protein bars and beef jerky. Not a single candy bar in sight. You’d hate it here.
I smile. He’s right. Another:
The instructor has a jaw like a brick. He paces back and forth like a hundred times a minute.
Then:
Everybody tries to out-alpha one another.
I chuckle, shaking my head.
The coffee here is hot but otherwise torture. I miss your weird mugs.
Every one of my mugs is a keeper.
A guy at the gym flirted with me. That, or he was a weird blinker. FYI: it wouldn’t matter if he flirted or not. I only want you.
The smile slips.
I tried Frankie’s cousin’s curry. If I die during the night, know this: I love you.
My throat tightens. And then, faded and worn:
I miss you so much.
My chest aches. Another:
The bus ride to Briar Gap was agony. I love you too much. But I also need to do this.
That one knocks the air out of me. I press my hand over my mouth, then reach for another.
Saw a flyer for an open mic night at a bar down the street. You’d blow their minds.
The pile isn’t random — it’s a breadcrumb trail of four years. Proof he didn’t just think about me. He carried me. By the time I pull the one that reads —
I’m learning to fight better, breathe better, think better. But I don’t feel better.
— my eyes are wet, and the weight of all those scraps of paper finally crashes over me.
Xaden’s awake, blinking, one hand braced behind him. “You opened the box?”
“I did.”
A beat.
“I thought it was something to do with this operation. Instead it’s…” I gesture helplessly. “This is insane, Xaden.” He sits up with a wince and rubs his jaw. His beautiful face has stitches, and fury sparks again in me, hot and protective.
“You didn’t have to keep all of these,” I say, softer now.