Chapter 6
VALENTINA
Xavier's been doing physical therapy for three days now, and I'm starting to think the therapist quit because she couldn't handle him.
"Again?" he growls from his position on the floor mat I've spread out in the bedroom. Sweat beads on his forehead, rolls down his temples despite the cool air circulating from the open window. His t-shirt is soaked through at the back. "We've done this ten times already."
"Twelve," I correct, kneeling beside him on the blue therapy mat, placing my palm flat against the sole of his right foot. The skin is cool, almost clammy. "And we're supposed to do fifteen. Doctor's orders."
"The doctor can go fuck himself," he snaps, but there's no real heat in it. Just exhaustion and pain.
"That's very mature," I observe dryly, applying gentle pressure to his foot. "Now push against my hand. Come on, I know you can feel something there. Rita said the sensation is coming back."
"I can feel pain," he grits out, every muscle in his leg trembling with effort. "Does that count?"
"Pain means nerves are firing," I reply, keeping my voice patient and steady even though we've had this exact conversation every single day for three days straight. "Pain is good. Pain means things are healing, reconnecting. Now push. Really push."
He tries. I can see it in the way his jaw clenches so hard I worry about his teeth, in the cords standing out in his neck, in the white-knuckle grip he has on the edge of the mat. His entire body is rigid with concentration and effort.
His foot moves—barely, maybe half an inch of pressure against my palm—but it moves.
"There," I say, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. "Did you feel that? Xavier, that was more than yesterday."
"Felt like my entire leg was on fire," he grits out through clenched teeth. "Like someone was dragging razor blades through my muscles."
"But you moved it," I insist, pressing my other hand to his calf, feeling the slight tremor in the muscle. "Xavier, you moved it. That's huge."
"Barely."
"It's still progress. Real, measurable progress." I shift position, moving to his left leg, arranging myself so I can support his knee properly. "Okay, same thing. Push against my hand. Left side usually responds better."
"No."
I blink, looking up at his face. "What?"
"I said no. I'm done for today."
"We have three more exercises to complete—"
"And I'm telling you I'm done," he interrupts, voice hard and flat. "Help me back to the chair. Now."
I sit back on my heels, studying him carefully.
His face is gray with pain and exhaustion, yes, but there's something else there too.
Frustration radiating off him in waves. Anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Fear, maybe, buried deep under all the bravado—fear that this is as good as it gets, that he'll never walk again, that he's broken permanently.
"You're being a bad patient," I tell him gently.
"And you're being a pain in the ass," he shoots back immediately.
"I'm trying to help you."
"I didn't ask for your help."
The words sting more than they should. I know he doesn't mean it—know he's lashing out because he hates being weak, hates needing help with basic functions like getting dressed or using the bathroom, hates that his body betrayed him in the most fundamental way.
But it still hurts, cuts deeper than I want to admit.
"Fine," I say, starting to stand, wiping my palms on my jeans. "Do it yourself then."
His hand shoots out, catches my wrist in a grip that's surprisingly strong. "Wait."
I pause, looking down at where his fingers circle my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to keep me in place.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, and the fight drains out of his voice. "That was—I didn't mean that. I'm just—"
"In pain," I finish for him. "And frustrated. And tired of feeling helpless. I know. I get it."
He pulls me back down beside him, not letting go of my wrist. His thumb rubs absent circles on the inside of my wrist, over my pulse point. "But that's not your fault. None of this is your fault. And I shouldn't take it out on you."
"No, you shouldn't," I agree. "But I understand. If I were in your position, I'd probably be worse. I'd probably have given up by now."
"Doubt that," he mutters, finally releasing my wrist. "You ran an entire motorcycle club for three weeks while I was unconscious. Dealt with Johnson and George trying to stage a coup. Kept everything together. You're tougher than you think."
The compliment makes my throat tight, makes the guilt sitting heavy in my chest feel even heavier. Because he doesn't know. He doesn't know what I'm capable of, what I did, what I might be.
A flash—Marcus's face, eyes wide with surprise. The pipe in my hand. The swing. The sound.
I push it away, force myself to focus on the present. On Xavier, here, now, needing me.
"Three more exercises," I say, changing the subject before he can see whatever's written on my face. "Then you're done for the day. I promise. Deal?"
"No deal."
"Xavier—"
"Let me finish," he interrupts, and that hint of a smile is back, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No deal unless you sweeten the pot."
I raise an eyebrow. "Sweeten the pot how?"
His lips curve into something that might be a real smile if he wasn't in so much pain. "Kiss for every exercise I complete properly."
"That's bribery."
"That's incentive," he counters, eyes brightening slightly despite the exhaustion. "And I think I've earned it, don't you? Three weeks in a coma, bullet wound, paralysis, shitty hospital food that tasted like cardboard mixed with sadness—"
"Okay, okay," I laugh despite everything, despite the weight crushing my chest. "You've made your point. One kiss per exercise."
"Done properly," he emphasizes, pointing at me. "No half-assing it."
"Done properly," I confirm. "Which means full range of motion, no cutting corners, and you hold for the full count of ten. No cheating."
He groans dramatically. "You drive a hard bargain, woman."
"Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it," he says immediately, and something in my chest loosens slightly. Because this is the Xavier I know—competitive, determined, using any advantage to get what he wants. Even if what he wants right now is just kisses and the ability to move his toes.
"Alright," I say, moving back into position, placing both hands on his left foot this time. "Left leg. Push against my hand. Full extension. Hold for ten seconds. Ready?"
He takes a breath, centers himself, closes his eyes briefly. Then he pushes.
His foot moves—more than before, almost an inch of solid pressure—and holds steady. I count out loud, watching his face contort with effort and pain, watching sweat bead on his upper lip.
"Seven... eight... nine... ten," I announce. "That was perfect. Xavier, that was really perfect."
"Kiss," he demands immediately, opening his eyes. "Pay up."
I lean in and press my lips to his. It's meant to be quick, just a peck, a reward—but he catches the back of my neck with one hand and deepens it.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I forget for a moment that we're supposed to be doing physical therapy.
Forget everything except the taste of him—coffee and mint toothpaste—the feel of his hand in my hair, the way he kisses like he's claiming me, marking me as his.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"That was definitely worth the pain," he says, voice rough and low.
"Don't get used to it," I warn, but I'm smiling. Really smiling, genuinely, for the first time in days. "Two more to go."
"What's next?"
"Ankle rotations. Ten clockwise, ten counterclockwise. Each foot. And they have to be full circles, not half-assed attempts."
He groans again but gets into position, lying flat on his back. "This is going to take forever."
"Then you better get started."
What follows is slow, painful, punctuated by creative cursing and occasional threats to fire me as his physical therapist and hire someone who doesn't torture him.
But he does every exercise properly, pushing through the pain because he's Xavier King and giving up isn't in his vocabulary, never has been.
And I keep my end of the bargain, kissing him after each completed set until we're both a little breathless and definitely distracted.
Between exercises, while he rests and catches his breath, my mind wanders. Flashes of that night trying to break through the walls I've built.
Marcus backing me into the alley. Rain making everything slick. His hand on my throat—
No. Focus. Stay present. Xavier needs you here.
But the memories are relentless, pushing against my consciousness like water against a dam.
The pipe. Cold metal. The weight of it. The swing. The sound—
"Val?" Xavier's voice cuts through. "You okay? You look like you're going to be sick."
"I'm fine," I lie automatically, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about what's for dinner."
He doesn't look convinced but doesn't push. "Last one," I announce, checking the instruction sheet the hospital sent home with us. "Knee bends. Just three each leg, slow and controlled."
"Thank fuck," he mutters. "I thought you were going to make me run a marathon."
"Maybe tomorrow," I tease, trying to keep my voice light.
"Don't even joke about that. I'll have Asher murder you in your sleep."
"Noted."
I help position him on his back, hands braced on either side of his body for stability. "Okay, right leg first. Bend your knee, bring it toward your chest as far as you can. I'll help guide it but you need to do the actual work. The muscles need to fire or this doesn't help."
He nods, face already set in lines of concentration and anticipation of pain.
The first rep is brutal. I can see it in the way every muscle in his body tenses, the way his breath comes in sharp, pained gasps that sound too loud in the quiet room. But he gets his knee bent maybe thirty degrees—not much, but more than yesterday—before the pain becomes too much.