Chapter 9 Maya
Maya
Ares’s snoring is what finally drives me from my room. The rhythmic rumble has been my constant companion for three days now, a peculiar lullaby that’s both comforting and maddening. Tonight, though, it scrapes against my already frayed nerves like sandpaper.
I press my ear against the door, listening. The snoring continues uninterrupted—deep, steady breaths punctuated by the occasional snort. My hand hovers over the doorknob, indecision freezing me in place. The mini-heat has left me with a restless energy that pulses beneath my skin, demanding action.
I need air. Space. Movement.
The doorknob turns silently under my palm, the lock disengaging with a barely audible click. I hold my breath, waiting for Ares to stir, but the snoring continues unabated. Carefully, I pull the door open just enough to peer through the gap.
Ares sits slumped in a wooden chair outside my door, his massive frame somehow contained in the too-small seat.
His head is tilted back against the wall, mouth slightly open as he sleeps.
In the dim hallway light, with his guard down and features relaxed, he looks almost peaceful—a stark contrast to the coiled violence he usually projects.
Like a dragon sleeping on a mountain, I think, the image so fitting it almost makes me smile. Even at rest, there’s something dangerous about him, something that warns: approach at your own risk.
I should wake him. The proper, considerate thing would be to let him know I’m leaving my self-imposed isolation.
But waking him means facing him, talking to him, acknowledging what happened between us through that door during my heat.
The memory alone makes heat rise to my cheeks, embarrassment twisting in my stomach.
No. Better to slip past while he sleeps. I can always claim I didn’t want to disturb him if confronted later.
I open the door wider, wincing at the slight creak of old hinges. Ares doesn’t stir. I step into the hallway, my borrowed socks silent against the worn floorboards. The safehouse is quiet, the kind of heavy silence that settles in the dead of night when everyone else is asleep.
Or gone.
Distantly, I wonder what we’ll do if Poe and Logan never return. Anything could have been waiting for them at that meeting, not to mention just the danger of being recognized in the streets.
The more realistic part knows better. Logan always comes back. As much as it pains me to admit, the man is indomitable.
I move down the hallway, every sense alert.
My fingers trail along the wall, using it as a guide in the dim light and to steady legs that haven’t had to support my weight for hours.
Each step takes me further from the safety of my locked room, and I can’t decide if the flutter in my chest is fear or exhilaration.
Maybe both.
My feet carry me forward without conscious direction, turning corners and navigating the darkened house as if drawn by an invisible thread. It’s only when I find myself approaching a partially open door, light spilling from within, that I realize where I’m headed.
Cillian’s room.
I stop, suddenly uncertain. Why am I here? What am I hoping to find? Cillian has been a ghost since our escape from the doctor’s compound—present in theory but absent in reality. Ares mentioned he was recovering, that his wounds were serious but not fatal, that he needed rest more than anything.
But that was days ago, and the worry that’s been gnawing at the edges of my mind hasn’t subsided. If anything, it’s grown stronger, feeding on my isolation and imagination until I can’t ignore it anymore.
I need to see him. Need to know he’s alright. Need to see with my own eyes that he survived.
The door stands ajar, a sliver of golden light beckoning. I approach cautiously, peering through the gap. The room beyond is sparse—a bed, a dresser with a cracked mirror, a wooden chair piled with medical supplies. A makeshift hospital room, hastily assembled with whatever was available.
And there, in the center of it all, is Cillian.
He lies motionless on the bed, the sheets pulled to his waist, his pale torso bare save for a bandage wrapped around his midsection.
His hair—that shock of white-blond that always makes me think of arctic ice—is darker with sweat, plastered to his forehead in damp strands.
His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow but steady.
He looks...diminished somehow. Smaller than I remember. The whipcord strength that usually radiates from him is muted, replaced by a fragility that makes my chest ache. This is worse than I expected. Worse than Ares let on.
I push the door open wider, slipping into the room before I can reconsider. The air smells of antiseptic overlaid by the metallic tang of fresh blood.
My gaze falls to Cillian’s bandaged side, where a dark stain is spreading slowly across the white gauze. He’s been bleeding again, recently.
Panic flutters in my throat as I move closer, instinct overriding caution. I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his skin, afraid to touch yet needing to confirm what my eyes are telling me. His skin is pale—too pale—with a grayish undertone that speaks of blood loss and shock.
I press my palm gently against his forehead. Cold. His skin is cold and clammy, not feverish as I expected. Cold means not enough blood circulating. He might even be going into shock.
My hand moves to his wrist, fingers seeking his pulse. It’s there, but thready and rapid—another bad sign.
Carefully, I pull back the blanket, exposing his torso fully. The bandage around his midsection is soaked through in one spot, the white gauze stained a deep crimson. With gentle fingers, I begin unwrapping it, each layer revealing more of the damage beneath.
The wound itself is a jagged line across his side, maybe four inches long, held together by neat black stitches—or what were once neat stitches. Several have torn, the edges of the wound gaping open, blood seeping steadily from the tear.
“Damn it, Cillian,” I mutter, anger momentarily overtaking fear. “What were you doing?”
Training, probably. Pushing himself too hard, too soon, because that’s what he does. What they all do. These men who think their bodies are just tools, weapons to be honed and used regardless of damage.
I look around the room, spotting a first aid kit on the bedside table.
The kit is already open, likely because Cillian had already been tending to himself.
Idiot. I rifle through the meager supplies, but find suture material, antiseptic, gauze, tape.
Everything I need to fix this. Everything except the confidence to actually do it.
I’ve never stitched a wound before. The Enclave taught us basic first aid, of course—Omegas are expected to care for minor injuries in their Alpha’s household—but nothing this serious. Nothing that could mean the difference between life and death.
But there’s no one else here. No one else to do this. Just me.
I take another deep breath, steadying my hands. “Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this. It’s just like sewing fabric. Except the fabric is a person. A person who could die if you mess up.”
Not helpful.
I force the panic down, focusing on the practical steps. Clean the wound. Thread the needle. Stitch the torn flesh together. Simple in theory, terrifying in practice.
The antiseptic stings my nose as I clean around the wound, carefully wiping away dried blood. Cillian doesn’t stir, which is both a blessing and a concern. I’d rather he remain unconscious for this, but his lack of response to pain is worrying.
Threading the curved suture needle proves challenging, my fingers trembling slightly. It takes three attempts before the thread slides through the tiny eye. I position myself beside the bed, needle poised above the torn section of the wound.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, though I know he can’t hear me. “This is going to hurt.”
The needle pierces his skin, and I wince in sympathy, but Cillian remains motionless.
I pull the thread through, creating the first stitch, then another, working as quickly as precision allows.
The process is oddly intimate—this careful mending of another person’s flesh, this literal holding together of someone who’s falling apart.
By the third stitch, my hands have stopped shaking. By the fifth, I’ve found a rhythm, a strange confidence born of necessity. The wound closes beneath my fingers, the bleeding slowing and then stopping altogether.
I tie off the last stitch, cutting the thread with a small pair of scissors from the kit. The repair isn’t pretty—nothing like the neat, professional work that was there before—but it’s holding. The wound is closed. The bleeding has stopped.
I clean away the fresh blood, apply antibiotic ointment, and wrap a new bandage around his torso. My hands move with a surety I didn’t know I possessed, as if they’ve done this a hundred times before.
Perhaps in another life, I think, I might have been a doctor. A healer instead of a prize to be claimed and protected. The thought is both comforting and bitter.
With the immediate crisis addressed, I allow myself to really look at Cillian. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharp beneath too-pale skin. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his lips are chapped from dehydration. He needs fluids, nourishment, proper care.
I spot a bottle of water on the nightstand and reach for it, then hesitate. How do you give water to an unconscious person? Too much and he could choke. Too little and it won’t help.
Small sips, I decide, carefully lifting his head with one hand. I press the bottle to his lips, tilting it just enough to wet them.
“Cillian,” I say softly. “I need you to drink. Just a little.”
To my surprise, his lips part slightly, accepting the water. I tilt the bottle a bit more, letting a small amount trickle into his mouth. He swallows reflexively, and relief washes through me. He’s responsive, at least on some level.
I continue this way, offering tiny sips until he turns his head away slightly, refusing more. It’s not much, but it’s something. A start.
Setting the water aside, I pull the blanket higher over his chest, tucking it around his shoulders. He needs warmth, needs to build back his strength. Needs someone to watch over him.
I glance at the chair beside the bed, then at the door. I should return to my room before Ares wakes and finds me gone. Should retreat back to my self-imposed isolation where things are simpler, safer.
But I can’t leave Cillian like this. Can’t walk away knowing he’s vulnerable, alone, possibly still in danger from blood loss and shock. What if the stitches tear again? What if he develops a fever? What if he needs help and there’s no one here to provide it?
Decision made, I settle into the bed beside him, maintaining enough distance that I can still feel his body heat without touching. I’ll stay until morning, I tell myself. Just until I’m sure he’s stable. Just until someone else can take over.
Just until I know he’ll be okay.
The room is quiet save for the sound of Cillian’s breathing—shallow but steady, a rhythm I find myself matching unconsciously.
The adrenaline that carried me through the crisis begins to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
I rest my head against the back of the chair, eyes heavy but determined to stay open.
I need to stay awake. Need to watch over him. Need to be ready if something goes wrong.
But the events of the past few days—the mini-heat, the isolation, the emotional turmoil—have taken their toll. Despite my best efforts, my eyelids droop, consciousness slipping away in increments.
The last thing I see before sleep claims me is Cillian’s face, peaceful in unconsciousness, the worry lines that usually mark his brow temporarily smoothed away. In this moment, he looks younger, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen him before.
I’ll protect you, I think hazily as darkness closes in. Just this once, let me be the one who protects you.
The thought follows me into dreams, a promise I’m not sure I can keep but desperately want to try.