Chapter 8 #2
One step toward that space to check why the hell the shower was running in an empty bathroom.
And everything falls apart.
Xavier would attack. The cop would call for backup. Blood everywhere. Probably some of mine too.
Or Xavier would die trying to fight his way out with broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder, and I’d spend the rest of my life wondering if I could’ve done more.
Chest tightened.
Don’t look. Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.
The officer’s radio crackled. Static, then a voice in rapid French I couldn’t quite catch.
He responded, brief and clipped, then turned back to me.
“I leave you to your shower, mademoiselle. Désolé… Sorry for disturbance.” Headed for the exit. “You remember, you see anything, you call. Do not take risk.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
It clicked shut.
Counted to ten. Then fifteen. Then twenty.
No sound from the other side. No voices calling backup. Just silence settling over the building like fresh snow.
My legs almost gave out.
Swayed, towel clutched to my chest, shaking so hard my teeth clattered together. The adrenaline that had kept me steady drained away, leaving nothing but ice and terror and the delayed crash of holy shit, that happened.
He bought it. He actually bought the performance.
The shower still hammered away. Expensive as hell to waste water, but worth it. Worth every penny.
Breath came in sharp bursts. I was freezing. Water from my hair trickled down my spine, turned to ice on my skin. Goosebumps covered every inch of me. The towel offered zero warmth.
Move, Clare. Now!
Shoved off and crossed to the bathroom on unsteady legs.
He sat exactly where I’d left him. Perched on the closed toilet, utterly still, palms braced on his knees, in his underwear, tracking my approach.
Heat flooded my face despite the cold turning my skin to ice. He’d seen everything. Watched me strip down to nothing, perform for the cop, stand there dripping and shivering in a towel barely covering anything.
“He’s gone.” Rough. “We’re okay.”
Xavier’s shoulders dropped an inch. The dangerous tension eased fractionally.
Then his gaze swept down my body, and back up. Something flickered there. Concern, maybe. Or awareness I wasn’t ready to examine.
Shaking. Violently. Couldn’t stop.
He rose, using the towel rack, despite the pain that tightened his jaw, crossed the two steps between us. Settled on my arm and guided me toward the shower still running behind the curtain.
“I’m fine.” Teeth chattering betrayed the lie. “Just need a minute.”
He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. But the pressure stayed firm on my elbow, maneuvering me toward the tub with surprising gentleness.
The curtain hung open. Steam billowed out, warm and inviting.
Xavier’s touch slipped away. He reached for the curtain, pulled it closed halfway, giving me privacy, creating a barrier between us.
Stared at the gap he’d left. He could look. I wouldn’t stop him. Didn’t have the energy to care after everything.
But he gave me dignity anyway. Stepped back. Turned away.
Chest tightened.
This dangerous man protecting my modesty when I’d just stripped in front of him without hesitation. When he’d watched every second. That was surprising.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He didn’t look back. Just stood there, one palm braced on the doorframe, giving me space.
Dropped the towel and stepped under the spray.
Heat slammed into frozen skin. Painful at first, sharp, biting, waking up nerve endings that had gone numb. Then blissful. Warmth seeping into muscles locked tight with cold and terror.
Knees buckled. Caught myself on the tile wall, forehead pressed to the cool surface while hot water pounded my shoulders.
The performance drained away. Left nothing but exhaustion and the echo of his voice asking questions I’d answered with carefully constructed lies.
The water ran over me until feeling returned to my fingers, until my core temperature climbed out of hypothermic territory. Until the shaking finally eased.
Shut off the spray and silence rushed in, broken only by water dripping from the showerhead.
Stepped out, reaching for a towel.
The space stood open. Empty. He’d left while I was under the water, moving silent despite his injuries.
Put on my pajama, the only piece of clothing available, wrapped a towel on my head and walked into the main room.
Xavier stood beside the bed, blanket in possession.
He turned when I entered, crossed to me in three uneven steps, wrapped it around my shoulders before I could protest, pulled it closed across my chest. Lingered on my arms, steadying me.
Then guided me to sit on the edge of the bed with firm pressure.
The role reversal hit sideways. I’d been the caretaker so far, tending his wounds, monitoring vitals, making decisions while he fought fever and pain.
Now he was taking care of me.
Moving despite the injuries I could see pulling at him. Despite the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs. Despite the immobilized shoulder and the persistent headache he couldn’t voice.
Wrapping me in warmth. Making me rest.
“You need one too.” Steadier. Nodded toward him still standing in just his boxers. “You’re freezing.”
He shook his head. Gestured toward me, you first.
“I’m fine now. Get a blanket before you go hypothermic again and undo all my hard work.”
Nothing.
Fine.
Grabbed the second blanket from the foot of the bed and threw it at him.
He caught it reflexively, something almost like amusement crossing his face, followed by a slight wince. Then, he wrapped it around his shoulders and lowered himself to sit beside me. Careful, controlled descent that couldn’t quite hide the pain.
We sat in silence. Steam from the bathroom still drifting into the cold air. Space heater glowing futile orange.
Xavier shifted. Rose again with visible effort, limped to the small table where I’d left a bunch of books and magazines, took my notepad and pen, and brought them back.
Sat closer this time. Thigh nearly touching mine.
Wrote in clear, forceful letters: Why did you do that?
“Do what?”
He angled his head, narrowing.
“Strip naked and lie to a cop?” Tried for sarcasm. Fell flat. “Seemed like the best option at the time.”
Jaw tightened. Wrote again: You could have given me up.
“Yeah. I could have.”
Why didn’t you?
The question sat there between us. Simple. Direct. Impossible to answer with anything but truth.
“Because they would’ve taken you.” Quieter than intended. “And I don’t know what they’d do to you, but I know it wouldn’t be good. I know you’re terrified of going back. I know...”
I know I can’t survive failing someone else who needs me.
Couldn’t say that part. Swallowed it down.
“I chose to bring you inside.” Steadier. “That makes you my responsibility. I don’t give up on people I’m responsible for.”
Xavier studied my face with that predator’s focus again.
He wrote: The ex-boyfriend. Cop.
Not a question.
Stomach dropped. Right. I’d mentioned that. Another strategic info drop to make the detective uncomfortable, make him leave faster.
Except it wasn’t entirely a lie.
“Yeah. We dated for about a year. Didn’t end well.
” Pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
“He wanted me to quit volunteering at the free clinic. Said it was too dangerous, working in that neighborhood late at night. Said I was putting myself at risk for people who didn’t deserve it.
Started to be controlling. And it got worse. ..”
A bitter laugh escaped.
“Told him the people who needed help most were exactly the ones everyone else walked past. He didn’t like that answer.”
Remembered the arguments. His frustration bleeding into control. The way he’d started showing up at the clinic unannounced, checking on me like I couldn’t take care of myself.
“When I wouldn’t quit, he started getting possessive.” Jaw tightened. “Tracked my phone. Called constantly when I worked late. Accused me of, it doesn’t matter. I ended it. He didn’t take it well.”
Xavier’s pen moved across the page. Sharp, deliberate strokes.
What did he do?
The question sat there, but I suspected he would be relentless about it.
“Showed up at my apartment. Multiple times. Called from different numbers when I blocked his cell.” Kept my voice flat, matter-of-fact. “Waited outside the clinic in his patrol car. Made sure I saw him watching.”
Throat felt tight.
“Filed a harassment complaint with his supervisor after that. Haven’t seen him since, but...” Shrugged. “Guess he was right about one thing. The danger part. Just wrong about who I’d end up risking everything for.”
Xavier went completely still. That stillness that meant his mind was working.
Then his body changed. Tension flooded through his shoulders, locked his jaw, turned his fingers white-knuckled around the pen.
What was that?
Xavier’s pen moved across paper. Forceful strokes, letters carved darker than necessary, nearly tearing through the cheap notepad.
Do you want him dead?
Blinked. Stared at the words.
He wasn’t joking. Wasn’t being dramatic. The question sat there, simple and sincere, like he was asking if I wanted coffee.
A laugh bubbled up, half shock, half something darker I refused to examine.
“Jesus Christ, Xavier.” Tugged at the towel on my head and dragged fingers through my damp hair. “No. I don’t want him dead. I want him to leave me alone, which he’s doing. Filing a harassment complaint tends to have that effect.”
Narrowed slightly. Skeptical.
“I’m serious.” Met his gaze. “He’s a cop. An asshole cop who couldn’t handle me standing up to him and needed to be told off, but no, I don’t want him dead.”
The pen moved:
If he comes back?
“Then I’ll deal with it, like the big girl I am.” Sharper than intended. “I’ve been dealing with men who think they own me since I was old enough to bleed. I don’t need...”
Stopped. Bit back the automatic defensive response.
Xavier watched me. Waiting.
“I don’t need you to kill anyone on my behalf,” finished quietly. “Okay?”
He held my gaze for a long moment. Then nodded once before flipping the page.
What did the police want? Subject change. I would take that coward’s exit. What did he tell you?
“That they’re searching for someone dangerous.” Met his gaze. “Someone matching your description.”
He went still.
“He said if I saw anyone, tall, green irises, fair hair, possibly injured, I should call immediately. Not approach.”
Will they come back?
The question I’d been avoiding.
“Maybe. Probably.” Honesty felt necessary. “They’re searching door to door. He’ll file his report. If they don’t find you in the area, they’ll move on.”
If Marcel mentions seeing someone. If the blood trail gets noticed. If anything breaks the careful story I built.
“We need to be careful.”
Xavier’s pen moved. Three words, simple and devastating:
I have to leave.
Chest went hollow.
“No.” Too fast. Too sharp. “You’re not ready. You need the X-ray. Need to pack up on medical supplies. Need proper clothes so you don’t freeze to death walking out.”
Staying puts you in danger.
“I was in danger the second I dragged you inside.” Leaned forward. “That ship sailed three days ago. Running now doesn’t undo anything.”
They’re hunting me.
“I know. Which is why you need to be smart about this. Not stupid.” Grabbed the pen. Wrote on the paper myself: Clothes. Clinic. X-ray. Supplies. THEN decide.
He stared at my writing. Jaw worked like he wanted to argue, wanted to protest, wanted to refuse.
But he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t make his case with anything but gestures and written words that took too long.
Finally, he nodded. Once. Reluctant agreement.
Relief flooded through me. Too much relief. Too much investment in keeping him here when I should want him gone.
Should want the danger out of my apartment. The fugitive away. The complication removed from my life.
Except the thought of him walking out created a hollow ache I couldn’t name.
Xavier wrote again: Then what?
The question hung between us. Heavy. Unanswerable.
Then what? He leaves. Disappears into winter streets with police hunting him and no memory of who he is or where to go. Alone. Voiceless. Vulnerable.
And I go back to my empty apartment and pretend the last three days didn’t happen. Pretend I didn’t cross every line. Pretend I didn’t feel more alive, more present, more necessary than I had in four years.
Pretend to lose him doesn’t matter.
“I don’t know,” admitted. “But we’ve some time to figure it out.”
Long enough to not think about after. About the moment he walks away and takes something vital with him.