Chapter 4 #2
But I'm still in the memory, still feeling Marcus's hands on me, his weight crushing me against the wall, and I shove Zay away without thinking. Hard. Hard enough that he stumbles back a step, catches himself against the wall.
"Don't," I gasp, chest heaving. "Don't touch me."
He freezes immediately, hands coming up in surrender, palms out. "Okay. Okay, I'm not touching you. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
I shake my head violently, trying to clear it, trying to drag myself back to the present. The hospital. The vending machine. Zay. Not Marcus. Not the alley. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"What's going on?" he asks quietly, carefully, like he's defusing a bomb. "And don't say nothing. You've been off all week. Jumpy as hell. Avoiding everyone except Xavier."
"I'm not avoiding anyone," I protest automatically, but the words sound hollow even to me.
"You are," he counters gently but firmly. "I've tried to talk to you three times this week and you've found excuses to leave the room every single time. Asher says you barely look at him anymore, won't meet his eyes. And now you're having panic attacks in front of vending machines."
"I'm not having a panic attack," I lie, even though my hands are shaking and my breath won't come right and I can still smell the rain-soaked alley.
"Val—"
"I'm fine," I snap, voice coming out sharper than intended. "Can everyone just—I'm fine."
He's quiet for a moment, studying me with those too-knowing eyes, the ones that see through every defense I've ever built. Then: "You know what I find funny?"
"What?" I ask, staring at the vending machine, at the rows of chips and candy bars blurring together.
"Two months ago, you hated Xavier. Wanted nothing to do with him.
Kept telling me we should run away together, just disappear and start over somewhere else.
" His voice is careful, measured, like he's navigating a minefield.
"Remember that? You had it all planned out.
Chicago. New names. New lives. And now? Now you won't leave his side.
Haven't left this hospital in a week. Won't even let yourself sleep properly in case something happens to him. "
"He almost died," I respond, defensive, feeling my shoulders hunch. "He almost died and it would've been—" I stop, swallow hard around the lump in my throat. "I care about him. That's all."
"Since when?" Zay presses, taking a small step closer.
The question catches me completely off guard. "What?"
"Since when do you care about him like this?" he continues, voice gentle but relentless. "Because a week ago, before he woke up, you were a mess. Worried, yeah, but not like this. Not clingy and avoidant and having panic attacks when someone touches you unexpectedly. So what changed?"
I grab a chocolate peanut butter protein bar from the machine, then punch the button for a Gatorade harder than necessary. The mechanical arm moves with agonizing slowness. "Nothing changed."
"Valentina—"
"I said nothing changed," I snap, grabbing the items as they drop with hollow thuds into the collection bin. "Can you just drop it? Please?"
I try to walk past him but he steps smoothly in front of me, blocking my path without touching me, keeping his hands carefully at his sides.
"Move," I demand.
"Talk to me first," he counters.
"Zay, I swear to God—"
"What happened at the Vipers?" he asks directly, cutting through my deflection. "What did they say to you that night?"
"Nothing."
"That's a lie and we both know it."
"Move," I repeat, voice rising, echoing off the hallway walls. A passing nurse glances our way.
"Not until you tell me—"
"Stop," I cut him off, and something in my voice—something raw and desperate and breaking—makes him step back immediately, hands raising again. "Just stop. Please. I can't—I can't do this right now."
We stare at each other. He looks hurt, confusion and worry warring on his face. All the things I can't deal with right now, can't process when I'm barely holding myself together.
"You've never looked at me like this before," he observes quietly, and there's pain in his voice that makes my chest ache.
Like what? I want to ask. Like I'm broken? Like I'm barely holding it together? Like I'm one wrong word away from shattering into a thousand pieces no one will be able to put back together?
But I can't say any of that. Can't admit how close I am to the edge, how one push would send me tumbling over.
So instead I step forward, drop the chips and Gatorade on the floor, grab the front of his shirt in both fists, and pull him into a kiss.
It's not gentle. Not sweet. It's desperate and messy and probably inappropriate for a hospital hallway, but I need him to stop asking questions I can't answer. Need him to stop looking at me like I'm something fragile that might break, like he can see right through to all the darkness inside.
When I pull back, we're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"The last week has been a lot," I manage against his mouth, tasting coffee and mint on his lips. "Just let me make sure Xav is okay. That's all I need right now. Just let me focus on that."
He searches my face for a long moment, and I can see him wanting to push, wanting to demand real answers, wanting to dig until he finds whatever I'm hiding. But finally he nods slowly. "Okay."
"Thank you," I whisper, relief flooding through me.
"Mr. Cross?"
We both turn sharply. A doctor stands a few feet away—young, maybe thirty, with wire-rimmed glasses and a clipboard clutched in both hands. He's looking between us with obvious uncertainty about whether he's interrupting something.
"IsaiahCross?" the doctor clarifies, glancing down at his clipboard.
"Yeah, that's me," Zay confirms, stepping away from me, creating professional distance.
"I wanted to update you on Xavier's discharge plan," the doctor explains, flipping through papers.
"He'll be released in two days. I'll need you to sign some paperwork and we'll go over home care instructions—physical therapy schedules, medication management, mobility assistance, wound care, the works. "
"Two days?" I repeat, the words not quite processing. Two days suddenly feels both impossibly far away and terrifyingly close.
The doctor nods, offering a professional smile.
"He's progressing remarkably well. Better than we expected, honestly.
The movement returning to his toes is a very positive sign.
We want to get him home, continue his recovery in a more comfortable environment.
Hospital stays can actually impede healing after a certain point—the stress, the lack of proper sleep, the institutional environment. "
"That's great," Zay responds, but he's looking at me when he says it, eyes searching my face for a reaction.
"If you could come with me?" the doctor continues, gesturing down the hallway. "This will take about thirty minutes. We have quite a bit to cover—medication interactions, physical therapy protocols, warning signs to watch for."
"Yeah, of course." Zay touches my elbow—light, careful, barely there. "You good?"
"Fine," I lie again, bending to retrieve the chips and Gatorade from where I dropped them. "I'll go give Xavier his snacks."
He holds my gaze for another heartbeat, like he's trying to read my mind, then follows the doctor down the corridor. Their voices fade into the general hospital noise—beeping machines, overhead pages, the constant shuffle of feet.
I'm left standing there with chips and Gatorade clutched in my hands like lifelines.
With Xavier coming home in two days, I won’t be able to hide in this hospital room anymore. Can't use his recovery as an excuse to avoid everyone and everything. Can't keep pretending the memories will go away if I just don't think about them.
Which means I have to go back to the real world where Talia is with the Vipers, where everyone's asking questions I can't answer, where the memories won't stop coming no matter how hard I try to push them down.
I lean back against the vending machine, close my eyes, take a deep breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs.
Get over it, I tell myself firmly. It was self-defense. He was going to hurt you. Worse than hurt you. You did what you had to do. Get. Over. It.
But the memories don't care about logic or justification or survival instinct.
They don't care that I was defending myself, that it was him or me.
They just keep playing on loop—the sound of the pipe connecting with his skull, the blood spreading dark and thick across wet concrete, the way his body went limp and crumpled, the rain washing pink rivulets down the alley.
Another deep breath that catches halfway. Then another.
You can do this. You have to do this. Xavier needs you. The club needs you. Get your shit together, Valentina.
I push off the vending machine, straighten my shoulders even though they feel like they're carrying concrete blocks, and head back to Xavier's room.
He's sitting up when I walk in, looking alert and concerned, brow furrowed. The afternoon light from the window cuts across the bed, highlighting how much weight he's lost, how pale he still is. "You okay? You were gone a while."
"Yeah, sorry. Ran into Zay." I hand him the chips, crack open my Gatorade—blue raspberry, tastes like chemicals and artificial sugar. "Doctor says you're being released in two days."
"I heard," he confirms, watching me carefully with those dark eyes that see too much. "That's good news, right?"
"Yeah. Great news." I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. "You must be excited to get out of here. Get back to sleeping in a real bed, eating real food."
"I'd be more excited if you'd tell me what's really going on with you," he states bluntly, no preamble.
"Nothing's going on—"
"Valentina." He says my name like he's tired, like he's done with the lies and deflections.
"I've known you for months. I know when something's wrong.
I can read you. And something has been very wrong since I woke up.
You barely sleep. You jump at every sound.
You won't talk about what happened at the Vipers.
You're having panic attacks—don't deny it, I saw you practically run out of here. "
I look down at my Gatorade, can't meet his eyes, watching condensation drip down the plastic bottle. "I'm just tired. That's all."
"Is it the Vipers? Talia? Something they said to you?"
Yes. All of the above. But I can't tell him that.
"It's nothing," I insist, the lie tasting bitter. "I'm just—I'm glad you're okay. That's all that matters."
He's quiet for a long moment, long enough that I finally risk looking up. His expression is soft but determined. "Come here."
I climb back onto the bed and he wraps his arms around me, pulls me against his chest with more strength than he should have. His heartbeat is steady and strong beneath my ear, his warmth seeping into me.
"Whatever it is," he murmurs into my hair, breath warm against my scalp, "we'll figure it out. Together. You don't have to carry it alone. Whatever burden you're holding, let me help."
The words make my throat tight, make tears prick behind my eyes that I refuse to let fall.
Because I do have to carry it alone. Because telling him means admitting I killed his brother.
Means watching whatever he feels for me die in real time.
Means losing this—his arms around me, his heartbeat against my cheek, the safety I feel when he holds me.
So I just hold on tighter and let him think I'm okay.
Let him think two days from now, when he goes home, everything will go back to normal.
Even though I know—deep in my bones, with absolute certainty—that nothing will ever be normal again.