Chapter 7 #2
"The ocean," I said, because I needed to say it out loud. "I haven't seen it in five years."
"Five years." He repeated the words, as if he knew they meant something profound. "That's how long you were wherever you escaped from?"
I nodded, finding it hard to speak past the lump in my throat.
"Then I'm glad I could give you this view," Wade said softly. "If this is the only thing I can give you, the sight of your ocean, then I’m glad I could be here for it.”
Your ocean. He said it like he understood that it was mine. Was it obvious how much it meant just by my falling apart on his balcony?
I looked down at myself properly for the first time, taking inventory. The white cotton shirt was definitely not mine—too big, hanging off one shoulder. My legs were bandaged too, white gauze wrapping my calves where the jungle had torn at me.
My feet were covered in smaller dressings, and I could feel the ache of wounds pulling when I flexed my toes.
But it was my left arm that drew my attention again. The bandages there were much thicker, covering the welts I'd given myself with Manchineel sap.
"The burn on my arm," I started, making sure they'd treated it correctly. "It was from Manchineel. Manzanilla de la muerte. I did it on purpose to look contagious. Did they—did the doctors know what it was?"
"They figured it out." Wade's voice was calm, but I caught the flicker of concern in his eyes. "One of the nurses recognized it. She treated it and cleaned the sap residue. You should heal, though it'll take time."
I nodded, satisfied. At least that part had worked, and I hadn't poisoned myself to death.
"You purposely burned yourself." He said it carefully, not quite a question, but more like he was testing how I'd react to him acknowledging what I'd done.
"I needed them to take me out," I answered simply. "It was the only way."
He looked at me, those pale blue eyes tracking across my face like he was trying to understand something. But he didn't push, just nodded slowly, accepting what I'd said without demanding more.
I looked at him again, really studying him in the morning light. The sun caught in his platinum hair, making it almost white. The strong line of his jaw and the elegant bones of his face almost glowed. He was gorgeous.
Then the ocean caught my eye again. The waves continued their endless rolling, and suddenly I wasn't sitting on a sun-warmed balcony anymore. I was underground. I was managing schedules and absorbing anger, keeping twenty women alive in a place designed to destroy us.
"The girls." The words burst out of me, panic rising so fast it choked me. "I have to—they're still there, they're still—"
I tried to move closer to Wade, tried to make him understand the urgency, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. The world tilted sideways, and suddenly he was there. Right there, his hands on my shoulders, steadying me as I swayed.
"Easy, darling." His voice was low, soothing. "I've got you."
"No, you don't understand." My hands grabbed his shirt and held on tight. "The girls—they're at The Orion, underground, there are nineteen of them, and I left them there. I have the evidence, I have the receipts and the DNA—it's all in the bag, but we have to help them now before—"
"Breathe, Marie." His hand moved to my hair, stroking gently. The touch was alarmingly gentle, nothing like the hands that had touched me in The Sanctuary. "I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?"
"But the girls—"
"Will be helped." His other hand came up to cup my face, tilting it so I had no choice but to look at him. His gaze was steady, certain. "I promise you, we will help them. But first, you need to breathe. You're hyperventilating, and you're going to pass out if you don't slow down."
I tried to breathe, but it came out as a gasp. My chest was too tight, my heart slamming too hard.
“Breathe with me," Wade instructed softly, his hand still stroking my hair. His scent and warm linen were a sharp contrast to the memory of the air in The Sanctuary, and I focused on it.
"In through your nose, slow. That's it." He breathed in, deep and controlled, and I tried to match him, pulling air into lungs that felt too small.
"Good. Now out through your mouth. Slow."
He breathed out, and I followed. Once, twice, three times until the panic started to recede, until the world stopped tilting quite so violently.
"There you are." His thumb brushed across my eyes, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were welling. "Better?"
"The girls," I said again, but quieter this time, less panicked. "They need help right now.”
"I understand." And he did, I could see it in his eyes. "But Marie, you need rest. You need medical care. You're barely holding yourself upright."
"I don't care." The words tumbled out fiercely. "I don't matter. They matter. All of them—they're still down there, and I'm the only one who knows where they are, who knows how to prove it. I can't rest while they're there.”
"You do matter." He corrected gently but firmly. "You matter, darling. You can't help them if you collapse."
I stared at him, at this beautiful, confusing man who'd saved me and brought me to his estate like a fairy tale king, and was now sitting on his balcony floor, stroking my hair.
He looked puzzled. I could see it in the slight crease between his brows, his head tilted slightly as he studied me. Maybe he couldn’t understand why I was fighting him on this.
"I know people like you," he murmured finally, his hand still moving through my hair.
"People who put everyone else first. People who'll burn themselves to ashes if it means keeping others warm.
" His eyes held mine, steady and knowing.
"But you can't pour from an empty cup, Marie. And right now, your cup is very dry."
"I don't have time—"
"We'll make time." He said it with such absolute confidence that I almost believed him. "Tell me what you need. Tell me about the evidence. Tell me everything, but do it while sitting down, while breathing, while letting yourself be cared for. Can you do that?"
Could I? Five years of being the one who managed, who protected, who sacrificed, of believing that my needs didn't matter as long as I kept the girls alive. Now this man was asking me to let him help, to let him care for me while we figured out how to help them.
"The bag," I breathed, my voice shaking. "Everything's in the bag. Receipts with names and dates. Hair samples from all the girls for DNA evidence. Security badges I stole. It's all there."
"Good." His hand moved to my shoulder, steady and warm. "That's good, darling. We'll use it. But first, let me get you inside, get some food in you, and then we'll go through everything together. Then we can build a case that will stick."
Together. The word felt heavy with promise and possibility. I'd been alone for so long, carrying everything by myself, that the idea of someone else helping felt foreign, almost frightening. Like if I let go even a little, everything would fall apart.
But I was so tired, and he was right—I could barely sit upright, let alone mount a rescue operation.
"Okay," I whispered, the word feeling like surrender and relief all at once. "Okay."
"Good girl." The words were soft, approving, and they did something warm to me. "Now, let's get you inside before the sun gets too hot. Can you stand?"
"I think so." I wasn't sure, but I wanted to try.
Wade rose in one movement, then extended his hand to me. Palm up, offering, not demanding. I took it, felt his fingers close around mine, strong and steady, and let him pull me to my feet.
The world swayed, but he was there. His arm wrapped around my waist, supporting my weight without making me feel weak.
"I've got you," he murmured against my hair.
We moved slowly back toward the room, back toward the promise of food, rest, and a plan to save the girls I'd left behind. The relief was a heavy weight on my shoulders, and I leaned into his solid side, letting his strength carry me.
It was the first time in five years I hadn’t been responsible for my own weight, and the unfamiliarity of it almost made me cry again.