Chapter 6 #2
"That's one," I say encouragingly, helping him straighten the leg back out. "Two more. You've got this."
"This is torture," he grits out, breathing hard.
"This is healing."
"Same thing."
But he does the second rep, then the third, each one marginally better than the last. Then the left leg, which is slightly better—he can feel more on that side, the doctor said, which means the nerve damage is less severe.
By the time he finishes all six reps, he's shaking with exhaustion and his face is so pale I'm genuinely worried he might pass out on this mat.
"Done," I announce, sitting back on my heels, wiping my own forehead. "You did it. All exercises completed properly. I'm proud of you."
"Good," he breathes, eyes closed, chest heaving. "Now help me back to the chair before I pass out on this mat and you have to drag me."
"Not yet," I say. "You've got three kisses to collect first. Rules are rules."
Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, his eyes open and light up with something warm. "Come here then."
I lean over him and he pulls me down with more strength than he should have, kissing me with a desperation that has nothing to do with physical therapy and everything to do with needing to feel alive, to feel something other than pain and helplessness.
The first kiss is fierce, claiming, almost bruising. The second is slower, deeper, more tender—his tongue exploring my mouth like he has all the time in the world. The third is soft, almost reverent, like he's memorizing the shape of my lips, the taste of me.
When we finally break apart, he's looking at me with those dark eyes that see too much, that always see too much.
"I like this," he says quietly, one hand coming up to cup my face.
"Like what?"
"How sweet you're being. How patient. How gentle." He pauses, thumb stroking my cheekbone. "But I can tell something's up. Something beyond just worry about me."
My stomach drops like I've been shoved off a cliff. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't lie to me, Val." His voice is gentle but firm, no room for deflection.
"You've been different since I woke up. Jumpy.
Secretive. Won't meet anyone's eyes for too long.
And I know Zay's noticed too—he cornered me yesterday asking if you'd said anything to me about what happened at the Vipers. "
"I'm fine," I insist, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears, transparently false.
"You're not," he counters softly. "And that's okay—you don't have to be fine all the time. But you do have to be honest with me. With all of us."
I look away, staring at the wall instead of his face. I can't look at him. Can't see the trust in his eyes when I'm carrying this secret.
I might have killed your brother. I see flashes of it—blood, a body, a pipe in my hands. But I don't remember. I don't know if it's real or if I'm losing my mind.
"It's complicated," I manage.
"Most things worth talking about are."
"I just—" I stop, swallow hard around the lump in my throat. "I need to find the right way to say it. The right words so you'll understand and not—"
"Not what? Hate you? Leave you?" He pulls my face back toward him, makes me look at him. "That's not going to happen, Val."
You don't know that. You don't know what I might have done.
"Everything," I whisper. "The right words for everything. What happened. Why I've been—like this."
He's quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "Look, Asher and Zay love you enough to ignore it.
To give you space and time and keep you in their lives even when you're pushing them away, even when you're clearly lying to their faces.
But I can't afford to have someone I don't trust around me.
Not right now. Not when I'm this vulnerable and can't even walk away if I need to. "
The words hit like a physical blow. I curl into myself instinctively, hugging my knees to my chest, making myself smaller. "I know."
"So tell me," he presses, not unkindly. "Whatever it is, whatever you're carrying—tell me. Let me help. Let me understand."
"I want to," I whisper, and it's the truest thing I've said in days. "I just—I have to find the right way to say it. The right time. I can't just blurt it out. It's too—"
Too terrible. Too unforgivable. Too much.
"When?" he interrupts. "When is the right time? Because every day you wait, it gets harder. Every day you keep secrets, the distance between us grows. I can feel you pulling away and I don't know how to stop it."
He's right. I know he's right. But the thought of telling him—of watching his face change when he realizes what I might have done, who I might have killed—makes me want to throw up.
Another flash. Stronger this time. Marcus's body crumpling. Blood pooling dark and thick on rain-slicked concrete. My hands shaking as I drop the pipe, the clang of metal on pavement echoing.
Did I do that? Did that really happen?
I don't know. I can't know. The memory feels real but also wrong, like something I watched happen to someone else.
"Soon," I manage, forcing the words out. "I'll tell you soon. I promise. I just need a little more time to figure out how."
"Tell me before someone else does," he says, and there's steel underneath the gentleness now.
"Because if I find out from someone else—if I have to hear it secondhand from the Vipers or anyone else—I won't forgive that.
I can forgive a lot of things, Val, but not being blindsided.
Not secrets that put all of us at risk."
"It's not—" I stop. Because it is. It absolutely is a secret that puts everyone at risk. If I killed Marcus—if that's real—then the Vipers have leverage. Talia has leverage. "Okay. I'll tell you. All of you. Soon."
"Good." He shifts, winces sharply at the movement. "Now help me back to the chair before these muscles cramp and I really am stuck down here."
I move to help him, grateful for something to do with my hands, some way to avoid his penetrating gaze. It takes careful maneuvering—getting his arm around my shoulders, lifting him enough to pivot without jarring his injuries, lowering him into the wheelchair without dropping him.
He's breathing hard by the time we're done, face gray again, lips almost white.
"Pain meds?" I ask.
"Yeah," he admits, no longer fighting it. "The white bottle. Two pills."
I fetch them from the nightstand, along with a glass of water. Watch him dry-swallow both pills, then chase them with water. His hand shakes slightly holding the glass.
"You should rest," I tell him, taking the glass back. "Sleep off the worst of it. The meds will kick in soon."
"Will you stay?" he asks, voice already getting a bit fuzzy at the edges. "Just until I fall asleep? I don't want to be alone right now."
"Of course."
I help him transfer from the wheelchair to the bed—another painful, awkward process that leaves us both breathing hard.
Get him situated with pillows supporting his legs at the right angle, blankets tucked around him.
By the time he's settled, his eyes are already heavy—combination of exhaustion and medication starting to work.
"Val?" he murmurs as I turn to leave.
"Yeah?"
"Whatever it is—whatever you did or didn't do—we'll figure it out. Together. You believe that?"
I want to. God, I want to believe that. But I know better. I've seen what happens when secrets come out, when the truth destroys everything.
I might have killed your brother with a pipe in an alley. I don't remember doing it but I see it in flashes. Blood on my hands. His body. The sound.
"Get some sleep," I say instead of answering, instead of lying again.
His eyes close, and within minutes his breathing evens out into the deep, regular rhythm of medication-induced sleep.
I stand there watching him sleep, this man who just promised to forgive me for anything, who said we'd figure it out together, and wonder what he'll say when he finds out what I might have done.
Wonder if "anything" includes killing his brother.
Wonder if I'll still be standing here tomorrow, or if I'll be running again.
Always running.
I close the door softly behind me and lean against it in the hallway, pressing my palms to my eyes.
Days, he said. Not weeks.
Which means I have maybe seventy-two hours before I have to tell them the truth.