Chapter 8
Clare
The dangerous warmth in my chest had nothing to do with the space heater glowing in the corner.
Xavier slept. Really slept. Not the fitful unconsciousness of fever and trauma, but actual rest, chest rising and falling in deep, steady rhythm. The constant tension in his face had smoothed away. Since I’d dragged him inside, he’d been coiled tight. Always ready. Always on edge.
Not now.
I reached toward his forehead. Just checking for fever.
Bullshit.
I wanted to smooth the dark blond hair back, trace the line of his jaw, feel the warmth of skin under my palm. Territorial satisfaction settled in, his fever had broken on my watch. He was healing. Faster than should be possible, but I wasn’t questioning miracles.
Pulled back before contact. Shoved the offending appendage in my lap instead.
This isn’t clinical anymore, Clare. Hasn’t been for a while.
The IV bag hung nearly empty beside the bed. Time to remove it. Routine medical care. Nothing more.
Shifted closer, reaching for his arm. The moment my fingers made contact, everything in me settled and sparked simultaneously. Warm. Alive. Healing.
Professional motions betrayed by hyperawareness. Pulse under my fingertips, steady and strong. The muscle of his forearm solid beneath my palm as I stabilized the IV site.
As I peeled back the tape carefully, he stirred.
“Morning.” Too aware of him watching. “Fever’s gone. You’re healing. Hurray.”
Slow acknowledgment.
A flush crept up my neck.
Focus on the IV, genius. Not on how he tracks every movement. Not on yesterday’s unfinished tension simmering between us.
Withdrew the catheter smoothly, applied pressure with gauze. His other arm came up, covered mine.
Breath caught.
“You’re okay.” Steadier than I felt. “You’re doing better than okay. Vitals are good. Wounds are closing. You have an amazing recovery power, I admit. A few more days and you’ll be...”
Mobile enough to leave.
The thought landed wrong. Unsettled my chest in ways I didn’t want to examine.
His thumb brushed across my knuckles. Once. The touch deliberate, conscious. Then he released me.
Pulled away. Busied myself disposing of the IV supplies, avoiding his stare. “I’ll make breakfast. You need to eat. Build strength.”
Fled to the kitchen before he could respond. Before I did something stupid like lean into that touch. Like acknowledge what was building between us with every hour he stayed.
Twenty minutes of pretending normalcy. Toast, eggs, coffee that tasted like burned regret. Too bad my cooking skills were almost null, for him at least.
Xavier sat propped against the wall, shirtless in just his boxers. The bandages I’d changed this morning were clean, and the bruising had improved.
God, he was healing fast.
“Eat.” Set the plate in his lap. “Then we’ll try speaking. Just once. See if anything’s changed.”
Jaw tightened. The refusal clear in his expression.
“I know it hurts.” Perched on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch. “But we need to know if it’s the swelling...”
Movement outside the window cut me off.
Police car. Third one in ten minutes.
Stomach dropped.
They weren’t patrolling. The cars kept circling back, slowing at intervals.
And then, I realized they were doing door to door.
“Shit.” On my feet instantly. Another cruiser turned the corner. “They’re searching the area.”
Xavier moved. Swung his legs off the bed despite the pain that flashed across his face.
“No.” Palms on his shoulders, pushing him back down. “That won’t work.”
His expression shifted. Something dangerous sliding into place.
If they knock and come in for a search, he’ll be found and try to fight. He’ll tear everything open trying to kill whoever comes through. Or be killed.
Pulse hammered. “Bathroom. Now.”
He stood, swaying. I ducked under his good arm, took his weight. Guided him the few steps before sitting him on the toilet.
“Stay silent.” Urgent whisper, faces inches apart. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
He caught my wrist, shaking his head, definitely not agreeing with any of this.
My palm pressed to his chest. Feeling his heartbeat.
If they find him, they take him.
I won’t allow it.
Pulled away and returned into the main room.
The apartment looked like a crime scene. Medical supplies scattered everywhere. IV stand. Bloody towels I’d meant to wash. His tactical gear shoved under the bed but visible if anyone looked.
Thirty seconds. Maybe less.
Grabbed the IV stand, shoved it in the closet. Kicked the towels under the bed. Snatched up gauze wrappers, antibiotic vials, anything incriminating.
No time.
The shower. Turn it on, make it look like I just got out,
Yanked my shirt over my head. Bra next. Jeans, underwear, everything in a pile on the floor. Xavier sat on the closed toilet, absolutely still, but there was no time to be shy about any of this.
Stepped under the hot spray, heat searing my skin. Not from embarrassment, but from the weight of his gaze.
Steam started rising. My pulse raced for reasons that had nothing to do with the police about to knock.
Xavier hadn’t looked away, while I was doing everything to not gaze in his direction.
Knock at the entrance.
“J’arrive!” Called toward it. One moment. Shut off the water, grabbed the towel. Wrapped it around myself, barely covering anything.
Hair dripped down my back, I made sure to let the water running and leave the bathroom ajar. Goosebumps erupted across my arms, my legs. The apartment was freezing. The space heater did nothing against the cold rushing in from every gap in the walls.
One more knock. Impatient now.
I smiled and opened up.
The detective stood in the hallway, notepad in possession. Middle-aged, weathered face, awareness that missed nothing. His gaze flicked down to the towel, back up to my face.
Discomfort crossed his expression. Good.
“Yes?” Let my teeth chatter. Not hard, my skin was already ice. “Can I help you?”
“Inspecteur Morneau.” Gruff voice, heavy accent. “Police nationale. We are search for a suspect. Dangerous man, escape from custody.”
“In my building?” Widened. Innocent. Concerned.
“The area. We search all apartment.” Trying not to look at my body, failing. “You are alone here, mademoiselle?”
“Yes.” Shivered. The cold bit through the thin towel. Water turned to ice on my skin. “Just me.”
“You have see anyone? Strange man, maybe injured? In last days?”
“No. I work nights. Sleep during the day. Haven’t seen anyone.”
His gaze caught on my temple. The bruise from when I’d collapsed, yellow-green now but still visible.
“You are hurt.”
Shit.
“Slipped. Ice outside. Two days ago.” Shrugged, tried for sheepish. “Embarrassing. I’m a nurse. Should know better.”
“A nurse.” Something shifted in his expression. Interest. “Where you work?”
“Clinic Sainte-Marie, a few blocks from here.”
“Difficult work.”
“It’s a job.” Another shiver. Genuine. My lips were going numb. “Look, I’m freezing. Can this wait? I just got out of the shower...”
“I must look inside.” Not a question. Statement.
Heart stopped.
“Why? I told you, I haven’t seen anyone.”
“Procedure. All apartment, we search.” He stepped forward.
Xavier was so close, two meters away. Coiled. Probably ready to attack the moment this man crossed the threshold.
“Of course.” Stepped back. Smiled through chattering teeth. “Come in.”
Make him uncomfortable. Make him leave fast.
He entered, scanning the studio. Single room, easy to assess. Kitchen area, bed against the wall, bathroom.
“The shower still run,” he noted, gesturing toward it. Water hammered against the tub inside, steady and loud. Steam escaped beneath.
Pulled the towel tighter, shivering harder. “Yeah, sorry, I was literally mid-shower when you knocked. Thought maybe the building was on fire or something.” Tried for a weak laugh. “Can we make this quick? I’m freezing to death here.”
The poor bastard’s gaze flicked down, once, for a second, before jerking away as though I’d burned him. His neck flushed red.
Good.
Make him uncomfortable. Make him want to leave.
“Of course. Very brief.” But he was already moving, scanning the small studio. His attention lingered on the bed against the wall, sheets rumpled, clearly slept in recently.
Nothing that screamed “harboring a fugitive who escaped from the river.”
Just a tired nurse living alone in a shitty apartment.
“You live alone,” he said again. Repeated. Testing, maybe. Waiting to see if my answer changed.
“Yes.”
“Boyfriend? Family?”
Let irritation seep into my voice. Crossed my arms over my chest, which made the towel ride up higher on my thighs.
“My ex-boyfriend’s a cop. French national police.
We broke up six months ago.” Sharpened my tone.
“Is this about him? Because I already filed the harassment complaint with his supervisor...”
“Non, non.” Both palms raised quickly, placating.
“Nothing like this. I apologize for intrusion, mademoiselle.” He gestured vaguely at the space.
“The suspect we search for, he is very dangerous. You understand? Extremely dangerous. If you see anyone matching description, tall man, maybe injured, green irises, fair hair, you call police immediately. You do not approach.”
“I understand.” Another violent shiver wracked through me. Not faked. The cold bit deep now, turning my skin to ice.
“You are certain you see nothing unusual? Three nights ago, maybe? Any strange sounds?”
When I dragged Xavier inside through the service entrance, leaving a blood trail hidden by snow by morning.
“I worked a double shift back then.” Truth mixed with lies. Easier to sell. “Got home after midnight, passed out. Didn’t hear anything unusual. I did see a lot of police cars though.” Shrugged, teeth chattering. “Sorry I can’t help more.”
Slow nod. But his attention drifted, inevitably, back to the bathroom. The shower still hammered away inside. Steam curled out from under the opening, thickening the frigid air of the apartment.
One question.
One more suspicious detail.