Chapter 6 #2
“I’m okay.” Rough. “Just need coffee. And food. And about twelve hours of sleep I’m not going to get.”
His thumb brushed across my knuckles. Deliberate. Questioning.
Everywhere he touched felt electric, oversensitive.
This was, what was this? What were we doing? And why couldn’t I make myself pull away?
I pulled back. Finally. It took effort. Stood before I could do something stupid like lean into that touch. Like let myself believe it meant something beyond trauma bonding and survival instinct.
“Food first.” My voice came out rougher than intended. “You need something in your stomach. So do I.”
I brought him coffee. Helped him sit up carefully, supporting his back. My hand pressed against bare skin between his shoulder blades, hot, smooth muscle shifting under my palm. I pulled away too fast. Jerked like I’d been shocked.
He took the mug in both hands, fingers wrapping around ceramic like he’d never felt warmth before. Took a careful sip. Closed his eyes briefly.
“Better than hypothermia?”
Almost-smile again.
I handed him the sandwich, watched him eat. Everything about him screamed training, discipline.
Who are you? What happened?
I forced myself to eat too, though I barely tasted it. Too aware of him beside me.
The space heater glowed between us. Outside, snow tapped against windows.
Overview of the situation: The man was warm. Fed. His fever was down.
I was alive. So was he.
Now for the hard part.
“Your bandages are soaked.” I gestured to the dark stains spreading across his ribs, the fresh blood seeping through the gauze covering his scalp. “When you caught me, you reopened everything.”
No reaction. Like reopening injuries was just Tuesday.
“I need to change them.”
He watched me gather supplies. Scissors, gauze, tape, antibiotic ointment. My hands weren’t quite steady.
Because this meant touching him again. Extensively.
I grabbed scissors, started cutting away the bandage on his side. The fabric peeled back sticky, revealing torn skin beneath. Three lacerations, all reopened where they’d been healing. Blood welled fresh.
Damn it.
“This is going to hurt.”
He watched me. Just watched.
I cleaned the injuries with saline, my hands working efficiently despite the way his muscles tensed under my fingers. Despite the way heat bloomed wherever skin met skin, the way my breath came shorter, shallower.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound. Just breathed carefully through his nose while I flushed each laceration, applied antibiotic ointment, closed them with fresh surgical glue.
My fingers brushed the defined ridge of his obliques. The hard plane of his ribs. Scars layered over scars, some surgical, some violent. His body told stories I couldn’t read, violence, survival, pain endured and overcome.
Even being a nurse with endless hours of experience, I was hyperaware of every inch of skin under my hands, every flex of muscle, every sharp inhale when I pressed too close to a wound.
What the hell was wrong with me?
What the hell happened to you?
He never left my face. Tracking every expression, every shift in focus.
Like he felt it too. Did he?
My cheeks burned.
His hand caught my wrist. Gentle but firm, stopping my movement.
I looked up.
The intensity there stole my breath. Not blank now. Not empty. Something raw and hungry and barely contained.
“Xavier...” My voice came out barely a whisper.
His thumb traced my pulse point. Once. Twice. Then he released me, gaze dropping.
Permission. Or warning. I wasn’t sure which.
I moved to the gash across his scalp. Peeled back the blood-crusted gauze carefully, revealing the deep laceration. It had torn open at one end, fresh blood matting his hair.
“You have a skull like concrete,” I muttered, cleaning it. “How you don’t have a worse concussion is beyond me.”
He tilted slightly, giving me better access. The movement put his face inches from mine, close enough I could see the exhaustion around his features, the fever-flush still staining his cheeks.
Close enough to feel his breath against my collarbone. Close enough to smell him, sweat and blood and something underneath, something that made my hindbrain sit up and take notice.
Close enough that when I leaned in to apply the glue, my chest brushed his shoulder. The contact sent electricity straight through me.
I swallowed hard. Focused on closing the gash, I wanted to touch him without the excuse of medical necessity.
Smooth, even pressure. The glue set quickly.
“There.” I stepped back, putting distance between us. Needing distance before I did something stupid. “Try not to ruin my work again.”
His eyes stayed dark, intense. Locked on mine like he could see every thought I was trying to hide.
I turned away, busying myself with cleanup, needing to not look at him for a minute. Needing to get my body under control.
The tactical gear still sat in a ruined pile on the floor. Blood-soaked, torn, evidence of whatever hell he’d escaped. I grabbed it, needing the distraction.
“You should search this.” I carried it to the bed. “Maybe something will trigger a memory.”
Safer than standing here feeling the weight of his stare, the pull of whatever this was building between us.
He was already reaching for it. Moving through the ruined gear with knowledge that made me pause.
Methodical. Systematic. Not random searching.
His fingers found seams, checked hidden compartments I hadn’t known existed. Felt along edges, testing for concealed pockets. Moved through the Kevlar vest with the kind of trained precision that said he’d done this before.
Many times before.
I settled on the edge of the bed, watching. Fascinated despite myself.
Who taught you that? Where did you learn to search gear like you’ve memorized every possible hiding place?
His body knew what to do even when his mind didn’t. Muscle memory without context.
Beautiful hands, really. Long fingers, callused palms, moving with efficient grace. The same hands that had held my wrist so gently, that had traced my pulse like he was memorizing it.
The same hands that could probably kill me without breaking a sweat.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, heat curled low in my belly, dangerous and insistent.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Xavier worked through the vest, the torn shirt underneath, the remains of tactical pants. Checking every seam, every pocket, every possible place something could hide.
Found a knife sheath. Empty.
A radio holster. Also empty.
Ammunition pouches. Nothing.
Whatever gear he’d been carrying was long gone. Lost in the river, maybe. Or stripped before he escaped. Either way, nothing remained but the clothes themselves.
Tension settled in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed harder into fabric like he could force answers from empty pockets.
Nothing. Of course nothing. That would be too easy. Can’t have actual answers when felonies and mystery are so much more fun.
“I’m sorry.” Meant it. “I was hoping we’d find something too.”
He went through it again. Slower this time. Double-checking every spot, every seam, every goddamn thread like maybe he’d missed something.
Still nothing.
Xavier’s palm pressed flat to the ruined vest. Shoulders bowing under weight I couldn’t see. Defeat in every line of his frame.
My chest tightened.
Reached out without thinking. My hand covering his on the bloody Kevlar.
He went still. Dark irises finding mine.
“We’ll figure it out.” The promise came easier this time. “There are other ways to find answers.”
Like what? How exactly are you planning to identify an amnesiac mute wanted by police?
Details. I’d figure it out.
My phone buzzed from the counter.
Xavier’s attention snapped toward the sound. Body coiling defensive.
“It’s fine. Just my phone.”
Except it kept buzzing. And I’d been ignoring it for hours. And maybe I should actually check what the hell was so urgent.
Stood, crossed to the counter. Grabbed the phone before it could wake the entire building with its vibrating.
News alert. French. Big bold letters across the screen.
La chasse à l’homme se poursuit près de la frontière franco-suisse.
Manhunt continues near the French-Swiss border.
My stomach dropped.
Xavier watched me. Reading my face, my body language, the way my fingers tightened on the phone.
“It’s about you.” Translation felt necessary even though he probably already guessed. “The manhunt. They’re still searching.”
Opened the article. Scanned the text.
Suspect recherché en lien avec un incident au bord de la rivière. Armé et dangereux. Le public est invité à ne pas approcher.
Suspect wanted in connection with the incident at the river. Armed and dangerous. Public advised not to approach.
Armed and dangerous. Fantastic. I’m harboring an armed and dangerous suspect. Except he’s not armed. And currently more in danger of dying than being dangerous. Details.
“They think you’re connected to ‘an incident at the river.” I met his stare. “They’re calling you armed and dangerous.”
No reaction. Just that flat, expressionless mask.
“Do you remember anything? About the river? About what happened?”
Slight shake. Certain.
Nothing. He remembered nothing.
The article continued with descriptions, vague, useless. Generic height and build that could match half the men in the area. But they had his blood type from the scene. Had evidence he’d been there.
Had probably found the blood trail leading away.
Set the phone down carefully. Forced my breathing steady.
“They’re looking. Actively. But the snow covered our tracks, and this neighborhood isn’t exactly high on their priority list.”
For now. Until they expanded the search grid. Until someone saw something, remembered something.
Until we ran out of time.
Xavier’s expression shifted. Something hardening behind his features. Decision crystallizing.
He was already shifting his weight, testing his legs.
“What are you doing?”
His hand moved. Chest, then outward. Clear gesture.
Leaving. He was leaving.
“The hell you are.” I moved between him and the door without thinking. “You can barely sit up.”
His gaze locked on mine. Flat. Certain.
“They’re looking for you. Which means staying here puts me at risk.” My heart hammered, fear and fury mixing. “You think leaving solves that? You think bleeding out in an alley is somehow better?”
Nothing. Just that infuriating determination.
“You don’t even know who you are. Don’t know what happened. Don’t know if you’re running from something or someone.”
Still unmoved. Still planning to walk out into a manhunt with nothing but my borrowed clothes and zero answers.
“Fine. You want to leave? After we deal with the head injury.”
That got his attention. Wariness bleeding through determination.
“Free clinic not too far from here. I volunteer there, I have a key. After hours, no one around. One X-ray. That’s all I’m asking.”
His expression said absolutely not.
“If it’s clear, I’ll help you leave. Get you clothes that fit, supplies, whatever you need. But if there’s a skull fracture...” Hospital. The word hung unspoken between us.
Sharp refusal. Immediate.
The movement made him wince. Hand flying to his temple, pressing hard.
Headache. Again.
I’d noticed them. The way he’d squeeze his eyes shut briefly, the tension in his jaw, fingers touching the wound site like he could push the pain back inside.
“How bad?” I held up my hand, fingers spread. “Rate it. One to ten.”
He stared at my hand. Then held up five fingers. Paused. Added another.
Six. Bad enough.
“Light sensitivity?”
Slight nod. Reluctant admission.
My stomach tightened. Not good. Really not good.
“That gash goes deep. I glued it shut but I couldn’t see how far the damage went. Could be nothing. Could be a hairline fracture. Could be bleeding inside your skull that’ll kill you in your sleep.”
Stark. Brutal. But he needed to understand.
“One X-ray. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty. Then you can make informed decisions about whether you want to die.”
Narrowed gaze.
“I’m serious. You walk out right now, you’ll collapse within two blocks. Then police find you. Then we both go down for this.”
Selfish argument. But effective.
Something shifted in his expression. Not agreement. Just consideration.
“The clinic is quiet. Off the main roads. No cameras inside. No one will know you were there.”
Another headache pulse visibly behind his features. His fingers pressed to his temple, jaw clenching.
Proof. Right there. His body proving my point better than words could.
“You want to leave? I get it.” Gentler now. “But first, let me make sure you’re not walking out there with a ticking time bomb in your skull.”
The argument stretched between us. His stubborn determination versus my stubborn refusal to let him die.
We’ll both lose this fight, my rational brain supplied helpfully. He’ll leave and collapse. Or stay and get caught. Either way, this ends badly.
Shoved it down. Focused on Xavier.
“Please.”
The word came rough. Honest.
He searched my face. Looking for manipulation, for a trap, for anything except what was actually there, genuine concern. Fear for him disguised as practicality.
Finally. One nod. Single. Reluctant.
Agreement.