50. Maverick
MAVERICK
FIRE MEETS FATE
I can’t stop staring at the left side of Clara’s face—swollen and discolored, the skin around her eye and cheekbone turning that deep purple-black that’ll take weeks to fade.
The split in her lower lip has stopped bleeding, but it’s still angry and red.
Every time I look at her injuries, the rage resurfaces beneath my skin.
The bruises around her throat haunt me the most. Dark finger-shaped marks that make my hands shake every time I look at them.
I was so close to losing her. So close .
What would have happened if we hadn’t gotten there when we did?
I don’t even want to think about it, but I know the what-if’s will torment me in my sleep for the rest of my life.
Just the thought of any other outcome where Clara isn’t safe with me fucks me up.
“Mr. Rhodes, I need you to step back so I can examine the patient properly,” Dr. Martinez says for the third time, her voice patient but firm—brooking no argument .
I’m hovering. I know I’m hovering, but I can’t seem to make myself move more than a few inches away from Clara’s bedside. Every instinct I have is driving me to stay close, to keep her in my sight, to make sure she’s safe.
“It’s okay,” Clara says softly, her voice hoarse and scratchy. She reaches for my hand, wincing slightly at the movement. “I’m okay, Mav. I’m okay.”
But she’s not okay. She’s sitting on the edge of a hospital bed in another fucking hospital gown, looking small and fragile and hurt, and it’s my goddamn fault. All of it.
We’re not okay.
Dr. Martinez waits until I move back before she continues her examination. She checks Clara’s pupils with a penlight, gently probing the swelling around her eye and cheekbone. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Double vision?”
“No,” Clara answers, but her eyes never leave mine. It’s like she’s anchoring herself to me. Or maybe she’s anchoring me to her.
“Good. The swelling should go down in a few days. Ice packs and ibuprofen will help. Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do about the bruising on your ribs beyond the ibuprofen.
” Dr. Martinez makes a note in her chart, then clears her throat.
“I’d like to keep you overnight for observation, given the head trauma and…
” She glances at Clara’s throat. “The strangulation. We’ll want to watch for any delayed onset complications. ”
My jaw clenches at the thought of Clara’s strangulation . It’s just another reason I wanted to put more bullets in that bastard. I take a deep breath, keeping my eyes locked on Clara’s, keeping myself centered with her presence.
“I want to go home,” Clara says quietly.
“Sunshine—” I start.
“I want to go home,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “Please.”
Dr. Martinez looks between us. “I understand, but given the circumstances?—”
“What circumstances?” Clara’s voice cracks slightly. “I’m fine. I’m not dizzy, I’m not nauseous. My throat hurts, my ribs ache, my face throbs—all to be expected. I’m fine . I just want to go home.”
The doctor sighs but nods. “If you insist on leaving, you’ll need to sign an AMA form consenting to be discharged against medical advice. And someone needs to stay with you for the next few days to monitor for any changes.”
“I’m not leaving her side,” I say immediately.
After Dr. Martinez leaves to get the discharge paperwork, the room falls silent except for the steady beep of machines. Clara stares down at her hands, picking at the edge of the blanket.
God, what I wouldn’t give to hold her right now. But I’m afraid she wouldn’t welcome it, wouldn’t welcome me .
Five minutes later, a nurse comes in with the AMA and discharge papers. She tells me everything I need to look out for when we get home: delayed swelling of her neck, difficulty breathing… essentially everything that will ensure I won’t be sleeping for the next week.
As soon as we get home, Juno bounds up to Clara and nudges her hand.
“Hi, my sweet boy,” she says, her voice tender and riddled with exhaustion.
With ginger movements, Clara bends down and runs her fingers through his fur, resting her forehead against his and scratching behind his ears.
She presses a kiss to the top of his head before standing and heading straight into the bathroom.
She surprises me when she asks me to join her without any hesitation, and something loosens in my chest. The idea of leaving her for even a moment is panic-inducing.
In the shower, Clara’s practically dead on her feet. I’m careful not to jostle her while I simultaneously clean her body and hold her up. When we’re both clean and she’s lotioned, I carry her into the bedroom. She doesn’t even protest—a clear sign of just how exhausted she is.
I lay Clara down gently on our bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. The soft lamplight catches the worst of her bruises, and I have to force myself to look away before the rage takes hold again. She needs me calm right now.
I climb in beside her, keeping some distance between us despite every instinct screaming at me to pull her close—to hold her the way I did this morning. “Can I hold you?” I ask softly.
“You never have to ask,” she whispers, and relief floods through me.
I carefully gather her into my arms, mindful of her ribs. She turns to face me, and for a long moment, she just stares. But she’s not really seeing me—her eyes are distant and unfocused.
“I can’t sleep until I talk about it,” she sighs, sounding weary.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I tell her, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. “Not until you’re ready. I’ll never rush you.”
She’s quiet for so long I think she’s not going to respond. Then, without looking away from my face, she starts speaking.
“I didn’t check the security camera. I didn’t even look through the peephole. I just… opened the door, thinking it was the grocery order.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but I can hear the blame she’s putting on herself.
“Clara, baby.” I cup her uninjured cheek gently. “It’s not your fault.”
Her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t acknowledge my statement and continues.
“When I opened the door and saw him there… I was terrified. Before I could do anything, he drugged me. Again. I woke up in that cellar. I didn’t know where I was, or what happened to Tamara.
He said not to worry about—oh god,” she cries, pressing her face into my chest. “Tamara… Is she… Is she?”
“She’s okay, sunshine. She has a concussion, but she’s alive,” I answer, my hand stroking her hair.
“Oh, thank god. I need to see her. I need to apologize.”
“Apologize for what, Clara? You have nothing to apologize for.” My tone is adamant. It kills me that she’s blaming herself for this.
“Yes, I do,” she says emphatically, pulling back to meet my eyes. “She got hurt because of me! If she hadn’t been there, she would’ve been just fine!”
I’m silent for a beat before I lean forward and kiss her forehead.
“Do you remember what you told me when I blamed myself for Heather’s death?
” I pause, but I don’t let her answer. “You told me that it wasn’t my fault.
You told me that it was the driver’s fault—he hit her and left.
Baby, I beat myself up for years, and it wasn’t until you that I really believed Heather’s death wasn’t on me.
And this? This isn’t on you. It’s not your fault that Tamara got hurt. It’s his . He was never going to stop.”
She breaks down in my arms, burying her face in my chest. I say nothing else and simply hold her, my hand moving in slow circles across her back.
Just when I think she’s fallen asleep, she snakes her arm across my waist. “In that cellar… he kept referring to himself as we and us . I couldn’t figure it out, but he wasn’t…
he didn’t sound sane.” Another lengthy pause.
“He kept me in the dark for hours. To punish me because I said he wasn’t mine. ”
She takes a shaky breath and lets it out.
“When you found us…” She trails off, her breathing coming fast and shallow.
“You don’t have to?—”
“He was going to rape me.” The words come out in a rush, like she has to get them out before she loses her nerve. “I tried to get away, but he was too strong. He was trying to… he was trying to…” She can’t finish the sentence, her voice breaking completely.
“But he didn’t,” I say firmly, running a hand down her arm. “You fought him, Clara. You’re a fighter, just like I said you were when I first met you.”
“Because you came. If you hadn’t—” Tears are falling down her cheeks now.
"I'm so fucking sorry, sunshine." My voice cracks, and I pull her closer, my own eyes burning.
"I should've been there. I shouldn't have left you.
I should've fucking had a protective detail outside of the house.
I failed you, sunshine." The words taste like poison in my mouth, but it’s the fucking truth.
The irony isn't lost on me—telling her it's not her fault while I'm suffocating under the weight of my own guilt. But this is different. This is on me. I promised to protect her, gave her my word, and I couldn't fucking deliver. The one thing that mattered most, and I let her down.