Chapter 34
The engines grow louder, pressing me back into the seat as the plane begins rocketing down the runway.
I fucking hate takeoff. Reese’s hand finds mine as I reach for the armrest, my palm clamping over hers as the nose of the aircraft pitches up.
Her fingers slip between mine, steady and warm despite the tremors still running through her body.
Through the window, the runway falls into darkness, and the desert quickly becomes nothing but a stretch of ghost lights and shadows.
I take a deep breath and exhale weeks of tension, finally having a reprieve from scanning for threats and trying to keep my focus on protecting her. Instead of having her.
Turning toward her, I survey the damage inflicted on her body under the soft glow of the cabin’s lights.
It’s my first real look at her, and she looks like hell.
Her eye is swollen, and purple bruising swirls over parts of her cheeks.
Exhaustion is etched into every line of her face.
But in spite of it all, there’s a shimmer of defiance that makes my chest ache. She’s fucking beautiful.
When the plane levels, I loosen my tight grip, but I don’t let go of her hand. I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to.
Damon appears from the front of the cabin with a small medical kit. He looks at the two of us, mentally triaging who requires attention first. “Let me take a look at both of you,” he says, already cracking open the latch on the case.
“Take care of Reese,” I tell him before he can start with me. My tone leaves no room for argument. She opens her mouth to protest, but Damon just kneels in front of her seat.
“Reese,” he says quietly, glancing up at her, “may I?”
She nods, and he begins his assessment. He starts with her face, gently pressing around the bruising along her jaw. Even careful contact makes her flinch. He mutters something under his breath and moves lower, checking the tiny gash along her jaw.
Then he hesitates, with his hand hovering at the hem of her shirt. “I need to check for rib fractures. Is that okay?”
She agrees hesitantly, “Yeah. Go ahead.”
The second he lifts the fabric, the air is gone from my lungs. Bruises. Everywhere. Deep, ugly things—purple fading to yellow, the kind that make you ache just looking at them. My hand tightens around hers until I feel her squeeze back, gentle but firm. “I’m okay,” she whispers.
But I’m not.
The sight hits me harder than any bullet ever could. Every mark on her skin feels like one on my conscience. I failed her. I wasn’t there when she needed me. I told myself I’d protect her, and this… this is what protection looks like when you fail.
Damon works silently, professional and efficient, as his hands roam over her skin. When he’s done, he lowers her shirt carefully. “She is okay,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Everything looks superficial. Painful, but nothing broken or internal from what I can tell.”
Reese exhales in relief. I don’t. My jaw locked too tight for words.
“Your turn,” Damon says, snapping on a new pair of gloves.
I want to argue, but I’m too tired to pretend I don’t hurt. My side is a mess of bruises from the accident, and the bandages on my shoulder are damp with blood. Damon prods gently, frowning. “You need your stitches redone. And rest.”
“Later,” I grumble.
“Now,” he counters, threading a needle before I can stop him. “You being stubborn isn’t helping you heal.”
Reese sits up, watching every movement, her eyes filled with worry. She tightens her hold as Damon works. The sting of the needle barely registers. All I feel is her hand—small, trembling, but certain.
When Damon finally finishes, he tapes the bandage, packs up the kit, and sighs. “You two are lucky as hell.”
Jagger appears from the forward cabin, a smirk barely hidden under the exhaustion lining his face.
He’s holding a bundle of clean clothes. “I pulled out a set for each of you,” he says, nodding toward the Aegis logo on the sweats.
“It’s a long flight. Both of you should get cleaned up and get some sleep. ”
Reese gives him a faint, grateful smile. I nod, already rising though my body protests every movement. Though I try to hold it in, I cannot keep from groaning as I stand.
“Come on,” I insist quietly, extending my hand to her.
A tiny smile pulls at the edge of her lips as she reaches up.
I lead her down the narrow aisle, toward the small restroom at the back of the plane.
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us in.
She stands close in the confined space, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, and I can see how much the exhaustion has taken from her.
“Let me,” I say, stepping closer.
“Chris…”
“Please,” I whisper. “Just let me do this.”
She doesn’t argue. She lifts her arms and lets me pull her shirt over her head. I work carefully, stripping away the bloodstained fabric, the dirt-smudged pants, until she’s standing in front of me, vulnerable and quiet in the pale light.
There’s nothing sexual in the way I touch her. This isn’t about want or need. This is solely about care. About my desperate need to fix what I didn’t uphold, failing at my promise to never let anything hurt her again.
I wet a washcloth under the small faucet, wring it out, and bring it to her skin. She shivers as I trace it over her neck, across her collarbone, down the curve of her arm. Every streak of dirt that fades under my hand feels like erasing some part of what they did to her.
When I reach her stomach, she catches my wrist. “Chris…” Her voice cracks.
I look up. “Reese… baby,” I whisper softly, watching her lower lip tremble. “I need this. We both do.”
She nods, barely, and I keep cleaning every inch of her skin.
When I finish, she takes the cloth from me without a word and turns the water back on.
Wringing the excess from it, she whispers, “My turn.” I start to protest, but she cuts me off with a look.
“You cleaned me up. Let me do the same for you.”
Her hands are tender, carefully tracing along the bruises on my ribs and the cuts on my shoulder.
She moves with precision, wiping away dried blood and grit until the water in the sink finally runs clear.
Her touch undoes me, a reminder of everything I’ve missed, everything I ruined, everything I still crave.
When she’s done, she helps me into clean clothes, her fingers trembling when they brush against my skin.
I help her to dress, as well, tugging the oversized sweats up her legs, not able to cinch the waistband tight enough.
The sleeves of the sweatshirt nearly swallow her hands.
She looks so small in my clothes. So perfect.
Before she can step away, I catch her wrist and pull her gently into my chest. She melts into me, to the place she was always meant to be. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing her in.
“I love you,” I whisper, voice rough. The words are heavy and raw, carrying every bit of fear I had when I couldn’t find her. “I can’t live without you, baby. I don’t know how.”
She tilts her head back, eyes wet with tears. “Chris…”
I lower my mouth to hers, not letting her finish as I silence her with my lips. Our kiss is deep and desperate, laced with the salty taste of her tears. Her fingers twist into my shirt as I painfully pull her tighter, both of us clinging to the other like the world will tear us apart if we don’t.
When we finally break our kiss, neither of us says a word. We don’t have to. I take her hand again, leading her back to our seats. She curls up beside me, her head on my shoulder, her breath blowing warm against my neck. Within minutes, she’s asleep.
I tuck the tendrils of hair falling over her face behind her ear and stare down at her. Pressing my lips to her forehead, I whisper against it, “I’ve got you now, baby. I’ve got you.”