Chapter 7 #2
He tracked me across the room. Steady. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world to wait for me to stop running from whatever was building between us.
Grabbed the basin. Dumped the dirty water in the sink. Refilled it while trying to straighten my thoughts.
A siren cut through the ambient noise. Sharp. Close.
My hands froze on the basin’s edge.
Blue light swept across the kitchen window. Moving fast. Getting closer.
Every muscle locked. The basin felt too heavy in my grip.
Sheets rustled behind me. Movement. Xavier trying to sit up.
“They’re not coming here.” Forced my voice steady. Calm. Like my heart wasn’t slamming against my ribs. “Stay down.”
The siren grew louder. Closer.
I couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t watch the light track across my walls, couldn’t see if it slowed, if they noticed something, if this was it,
“Don’t even think about moving.” Lighter now. Teasing. Building the wall back up. “I’m way scarier than any cop. And I actually know where you sleep.”
The cruiser passed. Siren fading into distance, blue light bleeding away into darkness.
Relief hit like a physical blow. My knees went weak.
Behind me, Xavier’s breathing shifted, still tense.
“See?” Turned with the basin, forced a grin I didn’t feel. “Told you. They’re looking for someone armed and dangerous. You’re currently armed with bedsheets and a bad attitude. Doesn’t match the profile.”
But my hands shook slightly carrying the water back. Fear had squeezed my heart for that instant, crushed it tight enough to leave bruises.
His expression shifted, and I sighed.
“Everything’s fine.” Set the basin down harder than necessary. “Now let me finish before this water gets cold.”
Set the basin on the floor, squeezed out the rag. “Your back, your legs. Then you can rest.”
His expression didn’t change. Just kept studying.
“I’m going to help you sit up. Carefully. Don’t fight me on this.”
Slid my arm behind his shoulders, supporting his weight as he shifted upright. His good hand braced on the mattress, taking some of the pressure. The movement made him tense, jaw clenching against pain.
“Easy.” My palm spread across his shoulder blade, steadying him. “Almost there.”
Got him upright, legs still under the covers. His breathing came harder but steady. The pain was sharper without the help of adrenaline. No dizziness. Good sign.
“I need to get your back.” Settled in front of him on the mattress, against his thigh. “Lean forward against me.”
He hesitated.
“Trust me. It’ll be easier this way.”
Slowly, he let himself tip toward me. His weight settled against me, his head dropping to rest on my shoulder. The intimacy of it hit like a physical blow, the vulnerable curve of his neck inches from my face.
Every breath he took, I felt.
His palms found my waist. Lightly. Just resting there, barely touching. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just... anchoring himself.
Like I was holding him. Like we were embracing.
My heart raced. Heat flooded my face.
Professional. This is professional.
Except it didn’t feel professional. Felt like crossing into territory I couldn’t uncross.
Dipped the rag in warm water, squeezed it out. Started washing his back with slow, careful strokes. Water traced the landscape of his spine, following the ridge of muscle, the constellation of scars.
So many scars.
Some surgical, clean lines, precise. Others jagged, violent. Burns. Blades. Impacts that should have killed him.
My touch followed them without permission. Tracing damage I wanted to understand. Wondering what kind of life left marks like these. Wondering who’d hurt him. Wondering if anyone had ever touched him gently.
Lower between his shoulder blades. His breathing shifted, deepening. The tension in his frame eased by degrees.
He was relaxing against me.
Trusting me enough to let his guard down. Even for a moment. Even this much.
An ache spread through my ribs.
“You’re built like you were made for violence.” The words came quiet. Honest. “But someone took care of you once. These scars, some of them were treated properly. Stitched clean. Someone gave a damn whether you survived.”
His grip tightened slightly on my waist. Acknowledgment, maybe. Or just reaction to touch he couldn’t place.
I kept washing. Down his spine, across his ribs, careful around bandages. The water cooling as I worked, his body warm beneath my fingertips.
“I don’t know what happened to you. Don’t know who did this. But you’re safe here. For now. Whatever else is true, that is.”
His head shifted on my shoulder. Just slightly. Like he was listening.
Like he believed me.
Pressure built in my throat.
Rinsed the rag, applied more soap. Started on his sides, working methodically. Every stroke mapping him. Learning the geography of damage and survival.
Learning him.
The silence between us felt different now. Not empty. Full of things neither of us could say: him because he couldn’t speak, me because I didn’t have words for what this was.
For what we were becoming.
Finished his back, rinsed one more time and dried him. “Done. You can sit forward now.”
He didn’t immediately pull away. Just stayed there, weight against me, palms on my waist. Breathing steady and deep.
Like he didn’t want to move either.
Finally shifted, sitting upright slowly. The loss of his warmth felt immediate. Cold rushed in where his body had been. I helped him ease down to the mattress again.
Slid off the bed, needing distance. Needing space to think without the distraction of touching him.
Twisted out the rag, focused on the basin. “Your legs next.”
He studied me circle around the bed, position myself at his feet. Pulled the covers just enough to expose one leg.
The awareness that had been building all this time slammed into me like a freight train.
Warm water sliding over his body under my fingers. The intimacy of touching him everywhere. How close I was. How naked he was under these covers. How much I wanted...
Heat flooded through my entire body. Froze mid-motion on his calf, water dripping onto the sheets.
I’d been touching his bare body this whole time. Washing him. Learning every inch of damaged skin. Getting closer and closer to crossing lines I couldn’t uncross.
And I wanted to cross them.
My mouth went dry. Pulse hammered in my throat.
This wasn’t clinical anymore. Hadn’t been for a while. Maybe hadn’t been since I first decided to bring him inside instead of leaving him to die.
He was staring at my face. Seeing me realize. Seeing the awareness crash over me like a wave.
He knew. Could see it written all over me: the flush crawling up my neck, the way my breathing had gone unsteady, the tremor in my fingers.
The want I couldn’t hide anymore.
I forced myself to keep going. Pushed through the awareness because stopping meant acknowledging it. Meant facing what this was becoming.
Up his shin, over his knee, across the hard muscle of his thigh. Each stroke felt electric now. Oversensitive. Every brush registering in ways that made my stomach clench.
His breathing changed too. Getting heavier. Studying me with an intensity that had nothing to do with fever.
Finished one leg. Started the other. Trying to maintain the clinical distance that had already shattered.
Reached for the waistband of his boxers, needing to complete the job, needing to push through before I lost my nerve entirely...
His hand shot out. Caught both my wrists.
Gentle but absolute. Fingers wrapped around my bones, his pulse racing against mine where our skin met. Water dripped between our palms.
His head shook.
No.
We stared at each other. Both breathing harder. Both aware of exactly what was happening between us. The charge in the air so thick I could taste it.
The want visible in his stare, in the tension coiling through his frame.
Relief and frustration hit simultaneously. Glad he’d stopped me. Terrified by how much I’d wanted to continue.
I pulled away. Immediately. Handed him the rag.
“Finish yourself.”
Rough. Unsteady.
He took it, his fingers brushing mine. I stood abruptly.
“I need a shower.” Too fast. Too obvious. “You need rest. Finish cleaning up. I’ll be back.”
Didn’t wait for acknowledgment. Couldn’t stay in this charged space another second, couldn’t keep feeling him study me, couldn’t face what I’d almost done.
What I’d wanted to do.
Walked toward the bathroom, aware of him following me with his stare. Aware my pulse was racing. Aware I was fleeing and didn’t care.
The bathroom door closed behind me. Lock clicked.
Pressed my back against it, squeezed my lids shut.
What the hell are you doing, Clare? He’s an amnesiac fugitive. You’re committing felonies. This is the worst possible time to lust after someone who might be a killer.
My fingers were still shaking.
And this time, not from the cold.