24. Wraith
Chapter 24
Wraith
E verything’s dark.
My body’s not mine—just weight and heat and fire in my side.
Hands grab me. Grunt. Lift me. I can’t move. Can’t stop them.
I don’t know these voices.
“Place him on the bed, please.”
Lily.
I try to reach for her.
Then—
Nothing.
Blink.
Everything’s soft.
The dark doesn’t feel sharp this time—it pulses, thick and syrupy.
The ceiling is a pale gray blur above me, moonlight washing the room in silver.
Something tugs at my hand.
My fingers twitch. A needle—IV— taped in place.
The sheets smell like lavender and laundry soap.
Familiar.
I turn my head. Slowly. Everything spins like a slow-loading frame.
She’s there.
Lily.
Curled beside me on top of the covers, legs tucked under her like she meant to sit for a minute and forgot to move.
Still dressed. One hand resting near my arm.
Like she didn’t mean to fall asleep.
Her breathing is soft. Deep. Tired.
Like she hasn’t slept in too long.
I let the darkness have me again.
Blink.
Sunlight cuts through the blinds, golden and warm. Blinding.
The world smells like tea and antiseptic. Clean. Domestic.
There’s humming—soft and steady. I don’t know the song. Doesn’t matter. Her voice cuts through the static, and I’d rather hear her than anything else.
She moves through the room like it’s any other morning—folding clothes, straightening what’s already straight, wiping dust from corners that don’t even need it.
Like I’m not half-dead in her bed, taking up space in her life I don’t deserve.
Oley sits on the dresser. Watching me.
Unblinking.
I swear he fucking winks.
I blink back .
Lily hums louder, her back to me. Hair piled on top of her head.
I don’t know what the fuck this is.
But it doesn’t feel as terrifying as I think it should.
It feels… warm.
And then it’s gone.
Blink
Warm cloth. Soft pressure.
I register it before I register breath. Or light. Or pain.
She’s talking. To me. To the cat. To herself.
“…they were very professional, even had little boot covers… one of them offered to take the rug, but I said no, obviously… I think the taller one used to be military. Had that look. Quiet. Sharp jaw. Definitely a brooder… they cleaned everything. Even the grout. I didn’t know bleach could do that… and they were gentle with you, which I appreciated. You didn’t even stir. Not once… told me to call if anything changed. I don’t have their number, though…”
Her words drift like dust in sunlight. Nonsense and comfort all at once.
Something damp moves across my chest—she’s wiping me down, murmuring apologies every time she touches a bruise. As if I can feel it. As if I’d ever complain.
“…You’re going to be fine, you know. You’re strong. Like… oak tree strong. Or glacier strong. Not that I’ve ever touched a glacier.”
Her voice shakes a little, but never breaks.
I want to tell her I’m here. I’m listening.
But I can’t.
So I just let her keep talking. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself be cared for.
Blink.
The world filters in slowly.
Greeted by the scent of lavender and bleach.
It’s too bright.
My body’s a battlefield—stitched, sore, foreign. The pain isn’t sharp. It’s heavy. Like someone filled my lungs with concrete and told me to run.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Everything’s… soft.
I’m in bed. A pastel quilt’s draped over me. There’s a cat asleep on my legs. My clothes are gone. And my side?—
It aches. Deep. Anchored pain.
I shift, and something tightens across my ribs. A hiss escapes before I can stop it.
Across the room, a chair creaks.
“Dominic?”
Her voice is a whisper. Hope dressed like fear.
I turn my head.
She’s sitting in an oversized cardigan, knees drawn to her chest on the chair in the corner, mug clutched in both hands like it’s holding her together. Her braid’s a mess. Her eyes are glassy.
She looks fucking exhausted.
I try to speak. What comes out is a grunt. Half pain. Half need.
“Oh my god. You’re really awake.” She sets the mug down on her dresser and rushes to my side. “You’re—how do you feel? Are you okay? Can you breathe? Is your head swimming? Do you feel fuzzy? Wait, don’t answer that yet, let me check… ”
She touches my wrist like she’s checking a pulse but doesn’t actually count. Her trembling fingers linger too long.
“I’m alive,” I rasp, voice shredded from disuse.
She lets out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “Of course you are. I stitched you up like a real surgeon. You should’ve seen it, Oley was useless, but I was a champion.”
My side throbs, but it’s the tacky, cracked feeling that gets me—the dried blood clinging to my skin, the itch crawling low on my back like a warning.
“I need a shower,” I mutter, already shifting toward the edge of the bed.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh! Yes, yes. Of course.” She jumps to her feet, scrambling to grab a fresh shirt. “Here. I’ll help.”
“I can manage.”
She gives me a look that says sure, liar, and steps in anyway, looping my arm over her shoulders before I can argue.
Getting there is a blur of pain and closeness. She doesn’t say much—just hums that same tune I remember from the fragments. It’s not a real melody. Just her. Soft. Familiar. Maddening.
The bathroom light is too bright. The floor too cold.
She sets the towel on the closed toilet lid and pulls the shower curtain open. “Do you want to sit while I?—?”
I shake my head.
But when I reach for the hem of my shorts—no idea where they came from—she moves faster. “Let me.” Her fingers brush mine. “It’s okay. Let me take care of you. I don’t mind. Then I know you’re okay.”
It’s not a flirt. Not a tease. It’s a promise.
And I can’t fight it.
She helps me out of the clothes with quiet, focused hands. Her touch is efficient. Kind. Reverent, even. Like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
She tests water with her hand first, then adjusts it until she’s satisfied. I stand under the spray, the hot water easing my muscles. She steps in behind me, and starts washing the dried blood from my back.
She hums again.
Every time her hand grazes a scar, I tense. But she never asks. Never comments.
She’s careful around the sutures on my side.
She finishes rinsing my back, fingers careful where the skin’s still raw, then steps around me with a soft, “Okay—turn.”
I do.
And freeze.
She’s naked. Entirely. Like it’s nothing. Like we do this all the time. And yeah maybe I have her strip for me pretty regularly, but this is different.
Intimate.
Water beads along the curve of her collarbone, sliding down the line of her stomach, catching in the hollow between her thighs before disappearing. Her hair’s already damp, clinging to her neck. Her lashes are wet. Her smile is soft.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
Not in the way that makes you stop and look.
In the way that makes you forget everything else.
She lifts a clean washcloth and starts wiping down my chest—slow, gentle swipes, careful around the stitches.
And then it happens.
Blood rushes where it shouldn’t. Where it really shouldn’t .
Fuck.
She doesn’t look down. Doesn’t say a word. Just keeps moving like there isn’t a full-blown situation unfolding between us.
I clear my throat. “Guess everything’s in working order.”
Her lips twitch. Barely. “Well, I’m sure that’s a relief.”
When it’s done, she turns off the water and grabs us towels. Her arms wrap around my waist, pressing the fabric to my skin. Her forehead drops to my chest and she sighs.
“You’re okay,” she whispers. So softly I think the words are meant for her, not me. “You’re still here.”
Standing in front of the mirror, shirtless. Damp hair. Clean towel around my waist. Lily’s getting changed while I inspect the damage.
The stitches are messy. Crooked. Thread uneven. Too wide in some places, too shallow in others. Every loop a different story. The skin is red and puckered at the edges—but it’s closed. It’s holding.
“Sorry,” she says behind me, voice too soft. “I tried really hard to make them straight. The tutorials made it look easier than it was.”
I run a finger along the edge of the wound.
“They’re perfect.”
She goes still.
“I mean it,” I say. “I’ll keep the scar.”
She looks up at me.
“It’ll remind me that someone gave a shit whether I lived or died.” I pause. “That’s not something I’ve had… in a long time.”
Her lip trembles.
“But yeah,” I add, deadpan, “they really do look like shit. ”
She lets out a watery laugh. “You’re such an ass.”
I turn, kneel, and kiss her—forehead first. Gentle. Like a thank-you. Then the corner of her mouth. A breath away from real.
“I know.”
And I mean it.
I look back at the crooked line in the mirror.
Something inside me tears a little wider. A seam I didn’t know I had.
Because every scar I’ve got was put there by pain. Rage. War.
But this one?
This one’s hers.
Messy. Sloppy. Fragile as hell.
And I’ll never fucking cover it.
She didn’t stitch me up perfectly.
She stitched me up lovingly.
And love doesn’t always stitch straight.
But fuck, it holds.