Chapter 6
Clare
The growl came first, low, rumbling through my back, vibrating against my spine before my brain caught up to waking.
Took three breaths to realize I was warm.
Actually warm. For the first time since dragging Xavier inside, my fingers didn’t ache with cold. My breath wasn’t fogging. The chill that had burrowed into my bones had finally retreated.
Fourth breath: the reason why.
Body heat. A lot of it. Wrapped around me from behind, his chest pressed to my back, his thigh hooked over mine under the blankets. His palm flat on my stomach like he was holding me in place.
Like I belonged there.
Warmth flooded my face.
Christ. How did I...
Memory surfaced in fragments. The landlord’s unit. Standing too fast. The floor rushing up. Nothing after that.
I tried to shift, test if I could move without waking him.
The growl came again. Deeper this time.
His arm tightened, pulling me back flush against him. Not violent. Just immovable. The kind of strength that didn’t need force to make a point. Every inch of him pressed against me, solid muscle, radiating heat, making my breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
“Xavier.” Rougher than intended. “Let go.”
Nothing. Just that steady pressure, his palm warm through my shirt, his breathing even against my neck. Each exhale ghosted across my skin, raising goosebumps.
I twisted enough to glance back. Awake. Watching me. Fever-bright green studying my face with that unnerving focus that made me feel dissected.
He’d been awake the whole time.
“I need to move.”
Slight shake. Absolute.
The possessiveness in the gesture should piss me off. Should trigger every instinct that said I didn’t need protecting, didn’t need some injured stranger deciding where I could go in my own damn apartment.
Instead, my heart rate spiked. My body responded before my brain could catch up. Warmth crept up my neck.
The growl had settled somewhere low in my belly, doing things I refused to examine.
Professional. Stay professional.
“I’m serious. I have to check your injuries.” Clinical. Reasonable. “You caught me when I fell. Probably tore half your stitches.”
His jaw tightened. But after a long moment, his arm loosened.
Slightly.
“Xavier.”
Still didn’t move.
Fine. “I will elbow your ribs. Don’t test me.”
He narrowed his gaze. Then, slowly, his palm slid from my stomach. His leg shifted. His body pulled back, putting inches between us.
The cold rushed in immediately. So did the loss, like something vital had been stripped away.
I shoved down the part of me that wanted to burrow back into his warmth and sat up. Too fast. The apartment tilted, pain spiking through my temple.
Right. Concussion.
I touched the spot gingerly, found the scab crusted over. At least it had stopped bleeding.
Xavier made a sharp sound, half exhale, half protest. His hand reached for my arm like he’d pull me back down.
I batted it away. “Stay.”
He scowled.
Good. Emotions other than blank watchfulness meant his fever was down.
I swung my legs off the bed, bare feet hitting freezing floor. My breath fogged instantly. Apparently the warmth only existed where Xavier was.
Speaking of which...
The radiator sat silent in the corner. Dead. Again.
Fantastic.
I crossed to it, gave it a solid kick. It sputtered, clanked, wheezed pathetically. A thin stream of lukewarm air hissed from the vents.
“Thanks for nothing,” I muttered.
Behind me, fabric rustled. I spun.
Xavier had pushed himself upright, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. Pale, jaw tight with pain, but sitting. Planning to stand.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He looked at me. Just looked. And I saw the calculation there, how far to the bathroom, how fast he could move, whether his body would obey.
“You’ll pass out before you reach it.” I grabbed the kettle, filled it at the sink. “Lie down.”
He didn’t move.
I slammed the kettle onto the stove, turned the burner on, crossed back to the bed. Put my hand flat on his bare chest, skin warm and solid under my palm, muscle shifting beneath my fingers, his heart beating steady and strong enough that I felt it throb through my hand, and pushed.
He went down. Not because I was strong enough to move him. Because he let me.
The distinction mattered.
“Good boy,” I said, dry as dust.
Something flashed in his gaze. Not anger. Something darker. Something that made my skin prickle. Something that sent heat spiraling through me.
I pulled my hand back like he’d burned me. My palm still tingled where I’d touched him.
I grabbed the makeshift IV pole, checked the bag. Nearly empty. The antibiotics had run through while we slept. Hours, based on the angle of pale light filtering through the covered window. Late afternoon, maybe early evening.
We’d been out cold for most of the day.
I detached the empty bag, pulled a fresh one from the medical supplies piled on the floor. Xavier watched every movement, tracking with predatory precision.
“This needs to go back in.” I held up the IV line.
He pulled his arm away.
“Don’t be difficult.”
Emphatic refusal.
“You have an infection. You lost a lot of blood. This is how we stop it from killing you.” I reached for his arm again. “Unless you’d prefer sepsis? Because I can arrange that.”
His mouth tightened. But he extended his right arm, wrist up, fingers curled into a loose fist.
I wrapped my fingers around his wrist to steady it. His pulse jumped under my touch. Mine answered, blood rushing hot through my veins.
Professional. This is professional. Except my hands weren’t quite steady as I wished.
The IV slid back in smoothly. His bicep flexed, the only sign of discomfort.
I secured it with tape, hung the new bag. “Better.”
A sound outside, quiet, testing.
Xavier went rigid.
Every muscle coiled, already trying to sit up.
Then his body shifted. Despite barely being able to stay upright. Still positioning himself to protect me even though he could barely move.
Something in my chest tightened. Dangerous territory. Don’t go there.
Another sound. Key in lock. Testing, turning, stopping when it hit the chain.
Then a cough. Wet, phlegmy. Distinctly Bernard.
Relief flooded through me. Just the landlord. Not police.
“Bernard.” I called toward the entrance. “Give me a second.”
Xavier’s gaze snapped to mine. Question clear: Who?
“Landlord.” I kept my voice low. “Pain in my ass. Exasperating. But harmless.”
Mostly harmless. If you ignored his tendency to barge in unannounced and his complete inability to fix anything.
Xavier didn’t relax. If anything, tensed more. Still positioned defensively. Still ready to fight despite having nothing to fight with.
“Stay.” Firm. Pointing at the bed. “Don’t move. I’ll handle this.”
I grabbed a blanket, threw it over him. Covering the bandages, the IV, everything in one swift motion. He looked like he might be sleeping. If you ignored the tension, the predatory alertness.
Cracked the entrance. Kept my body blocking the view inside.
Bernard stood in the hallway, space heater in his arms. Sixty-something, perpetually confused, with the kind of mustache that belonged in a bad French film.
“Mademoiselle Bolton.” His accent was thick, genuine. He pronounced my name ‘Bowl-tone’ despite three years of corrections. “The heat. I bring it. Finally, yes?”
“Finally.” I kept the gap mostly closed. “Thanks, Bernard. Just leave it...”
He tried to peer past me. “You are well? You look, comment dit-on, terrible?”
“Gee, thanks. I’m fine. Just tired. Night shift.”
Which I hadn’t worked in two days but Bernard didn’t know that.
“Ah, yes, the sick peoples. Very exhausting.” He hefted the space heater. “I bring it in, oui?”
“I’ve got it.” I reached for the heater. “Really appreciate it, but I need to sleep. Now.”
“But Mademoiselle, the outlet…”
“Is fine. Bernard. The heater. Please.”
I held out my hands, deliberate. Final.
He huffed. Muttered something in French that definitely wasn’t complimentary. But he handed over the heater.
Heavy. Old. The kind with glowing orange coils that probably violated six safety codes.
Perfect.
“Thank you. Really. You’re a lifesaver.”
“The rent,” he said. “It is due.”
“I know. I’ll have it tomorrow.”
Another lie. I had no idea where rent was coming from. But that was tomorrow’s problem.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed, already turning away. “Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle.”
I shut the entrance. Locked it. Chain. Deadbolt. Everything.
Leaned against it, exhaling hard. My hands shook on the space heater.
Xavier watched from the bed. Still tense. Still ready to fight a landlord he couldn’t see with weapons he didn’t have.
Still positioned to shield me.
“Stand down, soldier.” I carried the heater to the bed, plugging it near the mattress. “Crisis averted.”
The coils glowed orange. Warmth, real warmth, started radiating. First genuine heat since I’d dragged him inside.
I moved back to the kitchen area, needing space, needing distance from the intensity of his focus. Filled two mugs with instant coffee, strong enough to strip paint. Found bread, cheese, the last of the cold cuts. Actual food instead of soup.
My hands moved automatically while my brain kept circling back to the feel of his skin under my palm, the way his pulse had jumped when I touched his wrist.
Stop it. He’s a patient. An amnesiac fugitive. Not, whatever my body seemed to think he was.
I sank onto the edge of the mattress with the food, suddenly exhausted. Everything hurt. My skull throbbed. My shoulders screamed. The cut on my temple pulled when I moved.
Xavier’s hand found my wrist again.
Gentle this time. Not grabbing. Not warning.
Just holding.
His thumb brushed across the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. My pulse jumped, he had to feel it, had to know what that touch did to me.
I looked at him. Those dark irises still watching. Still calculating. But something underneath, concern, maybe. Or gratitude I wasn’t sure he could name. Or something else entirely.
My breath hitched.