Chapter 5 #2
But I held her stare a moment longer. Searching for... what?
Truth, maybe. Proof this wasn’t manipulation. Evidence that her determination was real and not performance for an audience of one.
Found something in those golden-brown depths. Couldn’t name it. Just... warmth. Directed at me despite the wariness, despite the fear, despite everything that should make her run.
My lids wanted to close. Fever and damage and blood loss pulling me under, inevitable, drowning the same way the river must have.
But not alone this time.
She was here. Would be here when I surfaced again. Stubborn enough to keep fighting even when I couldn’t.
Don’t trust this.
Automatic. That clinical voice in my head again.
Why do I sound like that?
She moved around the room with purpose. Confident. Knowing what she was doing.
Her fingers checked the IV line, movements efficient, practiced. Nurse. The assessment came automatic. Medical training. Years of it visible in how she positioned herself, how she found pulse points without looking.
How she’d put me back together.
My attention tracked her across the small space. Kitchen area. Window, still covered. Door, still closed. She swayed, caught herself on the counter edge.
Exhaustion.
The observation came clinical, detached. But something underneath twisted wrong. Made my lungs tight.
Why do I care if she’s tired?
Didn’t know. Couldn’t stop noticing anyway.
She moved to the makeshift supply area, bags piled on the floor, medical equipment spread across surfaces meant for cooking. Her coordination was off. Movements clumsy.
Busy work. Keeping herself upright through motion.
I knew that pattern. Recognized it.
From where?
No answer. Just the certainty that I’d seen people push past exhaustion before. Seen them sway and catch themselves and keep moving anyway because stopping meant something worse.
My fists clenched in the blankets. The need to get up, to, what? Help her? I couldn’t even speak. Couldn’t explain. Couldn’t do anything but lie here and watch her wear herself into the ground keeping me alive.
Useless.
Bitter. True.
She turned toward the window, stumbled. Her palm hit the wall, steadying herself. Stood there inhaling harder than walking three steps should require.
My body tensed. Defensive response I couldn’t control, muscles coiling under blankets despite the screaming protests from my side and shoulder.
Move. Get to her before,
Before what?
She pushed off the wall. Made it two steps toward the bed.
I saw it happen before she did.
The way her knees went loose. The tilt of her body, center of gravity shifting wrong. Her focus vanishing, consciousness flickering.
Falling.
My body moved.
Threw off blankets, cold hit bare skin sharp as knives. Ignored it. Swung legs off the bed, side screamed, shoulder seized, head exploded bright. Ignored that too. Lunged forward, reaching for her even as my vision grayed, even as something tore open across my torso.
Not fast enough.
She went down hard, crumpling, her temple catching the corner of the table on the way. Sharp thump on wood. Her body hit the floor and stayed there, one arm stretched toward the medical supplies as though she’d been trying to reach them even while falling.
Trying to help me. Even unconscious, still trying to reach the things that would keep me alive.
I dragged myself forward. Side grinding, something wet spreading across the bandages. Didn’t matter. Kept moving, using my good arm, pulling my body across freezing floor.
Every inch was agony. The cold bit into exposed skin, the shock of it stealing air. My shoulder screamed. Head pounded so hard I couldn’t see straight. Something warm dripped down my face, the head wound reopening, blood in my vision.
Didn’t stop.
Reached her. Rolled her carefully onto her back, checking for, what? Damage. Threat. Danger I could eliminate.
Blood matted her hair at the temple. Not much. Scalp wounds always bled dramatically, looked worse than they were. But the sight of it made something go sharp inside my gut.
Someone hurt her.
That I’d failed to prevent it didn’t register. Just the evidence that she was bleeding, that something had happened, that she needed,
My palms moved without conscious thought. Pressed to the wound, applying pressure. Checking her pulse with my other fingers, there, at her throat, fast but steady. Her inhales shallow but present.
Concussion, maybe. Exhaustion definitely.
She’d worn herself out saving me. Worked until her body gave out. And I’d been lying there watching it happen, noting her deterioration as clinical data instead of doing something.
What could you have done? You can’t even speak.
Bitter. True. Useless.
But I could move now. Could get her off the freezing floor. Could,
Her lids lifted. Unfocused, confused, trying to place where she was.
“Xavier?” Slurred. Struggling. “You shouldn’t be.”
Her fingers reached for me. Not defensive. Not pulling away. Reaching to check if I was okay, if I’d hurt myself getting to her.
Still trying to help me.
The fury that surged was irrational. Absolute. She was bleeding and her first instinct was checking on me? Foolish woman.
I grabbed her wrist. Not hard. Just holding. Stopping her from reaching for anything except staying conscious.
Her focus cleared. Found mine. Recognition bleeding through confusion.
I’m okay, she whispered. Just tired. The head, not that bad. I’ve had worse.
When? When have you had worse?
Questions I couldn’t ask. Fury I couldn’t express. Just this helpless rage at whoever had hurt her before, at whatever had left her alone in a freezing apartment helping strangers who brought nothing but danger to her door.
At myself for being the reason she was bleeding now.
My palms worked. One staying on her head wound, applying pressure. The other sliding under her shoulders, testing if I could lift her.
Pain lanced through my side. Fresh blood soaked through bandages. My shoulder threatened to dislocate again under the strain.
Didn’t matter.
I got her upper body off the floor, supporting her weight despite everything screaming. She tried to protest, mouth opening, words forming, but consciousness flickered, taking the argument with it.
Her head lolled against my good shoulder. Small. Breakable. And I’d let her fall.
No. You tried. You failed.
I dragged us both toward the bed. Her body against mine, my arm around her, pulling with my legs since my torso was fire. Every movement cost. Side grinding. Blood spreading warm across my stomach. Vision tunneling.
Kept moving anyway.
The bed was three feet away. Might as well have been miles.
My body gave out halfway.
Collapsed, catching myself on my good arm before we both hit the floor again. Gasping. Everything was pain. The cold making it worse, shock setting in, fever climbing under my skin despite the freezing air.
Can’t stop. Get her onto the bed. Get her warm.
Pulled again. One foot. Another. Her weight against me felt simultaneously too heavy and fragile, she’d break if I wasn’t careful.
The bed frame hit the back of my legs. I used it for leverage, forcing myself upright enough to lift her onto the mattress. She made a sound, small, pained, when I moved her, but her lids stayed closed.
Blood in her hair. My fingers shaking as I checked the wound again. Not deep. Bleeding slowing already. A scalp laceration. Probably.
I grabbed the blankets, pulled them over her. Tucking them around her shoulders, her sides, keeping her core warm.
But my grip was shaking. And the cold was biting into my bare skin, making tremors worse. And fresh blood soaked through bandages, dripping onto the floor.
Running out of time. If I passed out now, we’d both freeze. Both die. No one would find us until it was too late.
Move. Get under the covers. Share warmth. Stay conscious.
The assessment came automatic. But something underneath resisted, this was too close. Too intimate. I’d already touched her too much, invaded her space, taken from her when she’d given everything.
Except she was unconscious and bleeding and I was the only thing standing between her and hypothermia.
No choice.
I slid under the covers beside her. The heat was immediate, shocking after the freezing air. Her body radiated warmth, fever or just normal temperature, didn’t matter which. It was heat. Life.
My system curved toward it automatically, seeking warmth by instinct. The movement pulled torn muscles in my side, sent fresh agony through my shoulder. Didn’t stop my body from settling closer, from angling toward her heat.
Wrong. This is wrong. Too close.
But I couldn’t make myself pull away. Couldn’t force distance when distance meant cold, meant losing consciousness, meant failing to keep watch when she needed someone watching.
She shifted in sleep, her back pressing against my front. Small frame fitting against mine like she belonged there. Her inhales steady and even, her heartbeat visible in the pulse at her throat.
Alive. Still alive.
My palm moved without permission, resting on her side. Feeling her breathe. Feeling proof of life under my touch.
The possessiveness in the gesture should scare me. This protective instinct that had driven me off the bed, across the floor, had made me rip open wounds just to reach her.
It didn’t.
Just felt... necessary. Right in a way I didn’t understand.
She’s your only option. Your solution. The only person who can answer questions you can’t ask.
That was it. Had to be. Assessment. She had information I needed, who I was, where I came from, why I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t let anything happen to her until I understood.
Until I could leave.
Liar.
Unbidden. True.
Because my palm on her side wasn’t counting breaths. It was just... touching. Feeling her warmth, her aliveness, the way her body fit against mine under the covers.
Because the fury I’d felt seeing her blood wasn’t about losing my information source. It was visceral. Personal. The thought of her hurting had made something in me go sharp and violent in ways I didn’t recognize.
Because her name was the only word that felt real in my mouth, even though no sound came. The only thing I knew for certain in the blank space where my identity should live.
Xavier.
She’d said it like it mattered. Like I mattered. And some part of me had believed her.
Outside, wind howled. Snow tapped against windows. Police sirens wailed distant.
Inside, a woman who’d saved my life lay unconscious with my blood on her palms and hers in her hair. My body wrapped around hers under blankets that smelled like her, something clean, something soft underneath the antiseptic and copper.
I should be planning an escape. Should be assessing threats, noting exits, preparing for when whoever was hunting me came through that door.
But my palm stayed on her side. Refusing to move. Refusing to let go.
Mine.
Fierce. Irrational. Absolute.
She was my problem. My solution. My... what?
Couldn’t name it. Didn’t want to.
Just knew that if anyone tried to hurt her, I’d kill them. Couldn’t speak, could barely move, didn’t know my own name, but I’d find a way. Would tear apart anyone who touched her.
Would protect what was mine.
When did she become yours?
No answer.
Just her warmth against me. Her steady inhales under my palm. Her blood dried on my fingers from checking her wound.
My vision grayed at the edges. Fever climbing, blood loss catching up, exhaustion winning. Consciousness slipping despite will demanding I stay alert.
Needed to watch her. Monitor for signs of concussion. Make sure she kept inhaling.
Couldn’t keep my lids open.
Stay awake. You have to stay awake.
My grip tightened on her side.
Her body shifted, settling deeper into sleep. Into my hold.
Darkness pulled me under before I could finish the thought.
But my palm stayed on her side.
Feeling her breathe.
Refusing to let go.