Chapter 37
When the Dark Comes
Maliyah
After Felicity left, the apartment felt too quiet. Just me and Reed and the weight of everything I couldn't say.
He stood near the door, hands in his pockets, watching me with that careful expression he'd perfected over the past week—concern wrapped in patience, waiting for me to fall apart or push him away. Maybe both.
The silence stretched between us until it became uncomfortable.
"You should eat something," Reed said finally. "Keep your strength up."
I reached for my phone. I’m not hungry.
"How about a smoothie. You barely touched your protein shake."
The number of protein shakes I need to drink in order to have enough calories in a day makes me gag.
Fine. Could you make me a PB & chocolate?
He moved to the kitchen, and I heard the refrigerator open, the sound of him putting ingredients into the Ninja and soon after the loud grind of the blender.
I closed my eyes for a bit, trying to chase away the headache that came with using both my eyes—though my one eye was opening more recently, it was still blurry and painful to blink.
I felt Reed’s hand lay lightly on my shoulder and opened my eyes to see him holding out a glass with the shake. He handed it to me like this was normal. Like we did this every day.
I drank. Rich chocolate and perfect peanut butter—nothing like the hospital's bland concoctions. Before I realized it, I was slurping air from an empty glass.
I guess I was hungrier than I thought. That was good!
"I’ll put that one down as a favorite, then." Reed took the glass while sporting a sheepish smile, and brought it to the kitchen.
He called out, "You ready for your meds? Knock once for yes, or twice if you want to hold off."
I'd forgotten about the evening medications. The chart he'd made was still on the kitchen counter, each compartment in the organizer labeled with the day and time. Friday. 8 PM.
I knocked once. Better off just getting it out of the way. He brought measured cups with all my liquid meds in them. All of them taste like ass, but since I can’t swallow pills, my choices are limited.
"Need anything else?" Reed asked.
No. Going to bed.
"Okay. I'm going to hang out here for a while,” he said, motioning to the couch. You can text or bang on the wall if you need anything."
You don't have to keep checking on me.
"I know."
But we both knew he would anyway. Reed hesitated at the entrance to the hallway. Like he wanted to say something. Like there were words building behind his careful expression that he couldn't quite voice.
I waited, phone in hand, ready to respond to whatever he needed to say. But he just nodded. Turned away.
Getting ready for bed took longer than it should have. Changing into pajamas was a painful exercise in frustration—soft cotton pants and a loose t-shirt that I had to maneuver around my ribs. Each movement pulled. Each breath reminded me of what Bryce had broken.
Going into the bathroom, I closed the door and looked in the mirror—really looked, alone for the first time without Felicity's gentle hands or reassuring words to soften what I saw.
I stared at my reflection—yellow-green discoloration, swelling that I knew had reduced but to my own eyes, I looked disfigured. Stitches ran in various parts of my face, my left eye still wouldn't open completely, and my bottom lip was still swollen.
I looked like someone had beaten the shit out of me. Because someone had.
I reached for my toothbrush and saw something I hadn’t noticed before—where my toothbrush would normally sit was instead a children’s toothbrush. Next to it was a brand new Waterpik. I sniffed, trying to hold back the tears. I couldn’t though.
I sat on the toilet, looking at these additions Reed had obviously left for me. I laid my head in my hands, torn between a helpless feeling and one of utter gratitude. He made it so hard to keep my distance.
Buck up, Maliyah. Get control of yourself.
So, I stood up, shook it off as best I could and went about brushing my teeth as best I could with the wires.
I washed my face carefully around the bruises and took one last glimpse of myself in the mirror before turning away.
There was nothing I could do now about how I looked, so there was no sense in dwelling on it.
I left my bathroom feeling a sense of loss. Loss of the woman I used to be. Loss of the face I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again. As I entered my bedroom, I pulled up short in surprise.
The door swung open to a changed room. Folded pillow shams on the chair. A black cord ran beneath my bed where I discovered an electric foot warmer already heating—waiting for my perpetually cold feet.
Reed had positioned another wedge pillow against the headboard, my other pillows arranged around it.
I brushed my hand across the soft cotton as I lowered myself onto the bed.
My shoulders relaxed as I settled into the perfect angle that relieved my ribs.
I pictured Reed testing each position, making sure everything was just right.
I turned to my nightstand. A metal water bottle with a curved straw caught the light. Next to it stood my medication—cap already loosened—beside a protein shake. Against the wood grain lay something new: a large black e-reader with a folded note bearing my name in Reed's blocky handwriting.
Thought you’d appreciate how big the Kindle Scribe was. Maybe it will help with eye strain. Check your email for a gift to help you get started with loading up on some reading materials.
I sat on the edge of the bed and just stared—caught in a place of confusion. All these things, all this careful consideration, this wasn’t the man who ran because he was afraid. My mind and heart had a hard time reconciling the two seemingly different men that existed in Reed.
I lay against the wedge pillow, picking up my new Kindle, and just held it. I lacked the mental energy to read, so I leaned back and rested my eyes, hoping to fall asleep.
And couldn't sleep. Every sound was amplified in the quiet.
The refrigerator humming from the kitchen.
The heat kicking on with a soft whoosh through the vents.
Footsteps in the apartment above mine—someone walking from room to room.
A car door slamming outside, followed by voices and laughter that faded as people walked away.
I was hyperaware of Reed in the other room. Could hear him moving around through the thin walls. Water running in the bathroom. The creak of the bed frame when he lay down. And…nothing. No sleep came. Just silence.
The apartment didn't sound like the hospital. No hum of electronic monitors or my IV pumps. No nurses' footsteps in the hallway. No bright lights bleeding into the room from the cracked door, or the annoying sound of machines notifying staff that someone’s medication had run out.
Just darkness. And quiet. And my own breathing. The nightlight Reed had plugged in cast a soft glow across the room. My throat tightened. I blinked rapidly, fighting tears that burned behind my eyes.
I tried to sleep. Really tried. Closed my eyes and focused on breathing. In through my nose—one, two, three, four. Out through my nose—one, two, three, four. But my mind wouldn't shut off.
Running from Bryce in the hallway outside my apartment.
Being shoved into his trunk. Being trapped in the beach house.
The weight of his hands around my throat.
The bronze goddess heavy in my hands. The sound it made when it connected with his skull.
The crack of his skull against the table right after.
All of it on repeat in my mind. In my soul.
I forced my eyes open. Stared at the ceiling. Counted the shadows cast by lights from outside. Time passed. I don't know how long. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. Finally, exhaustion won. My eyes drifted closed. And the nightmare came.
I'm in the trunk again. Dark. So dark I can't see my own hands in front of my face. The space is too small, pressing in on all sides. My jaw broken even in my dreams, stealing my voice.
I try to move. Can't. I try to scream. Can't. I can hear my own breathing—fast, shallow, panicked. The sound echoes off the walls, getting louder and louder until it's the only thing I can hear.
Then hands. Bryce's hands. Around my throat. Squeezing. He's stealing my voice and now he's stealing my breath. Nothing I do lets me pull in any air. No sounds now but his laughter—that terrible laugh that makes my skin crawl.
"Did you really think you could kill me?" His voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. "Did you really think you could get away?"
The trunk lid opens. Light floods in, blinding. I squeeze my eyes shut against it but can still see the brightness through my eyelids. Bryce's face appears above me. Smiling. Blood running down his forehead where the statue connected. Still smiling.
"You're mine, Maliyah. You will always be mine."
His hands tighten around my throat. I try to fight. Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't—
I jerked awake, arms flailing. Gasping. Or trying to gasp. My jaw was wired shut and I couldn't get enough air through my nose. Each attempt to breathe sent pain exploding through my ribs. The panic was immediate, overwhelming, all-consuming.
I sat up—agony shooting through my left side. I began pounding on the wall behind me. The room spun. I couldn't catch my breath. Couldn't orient myself. Was I in the trunk? The hospital? Home? Where was I?
My door slammed open and Reed came in, moving quickly toward me. No hesitation. Like he'd been waiting for this.
"Maliyah." He knelt in front of me, his voice cutting through the panic. "Look at me."
I tried. Couldn't focus. Couldn't—
"You're safe." He moved closer, his hands visible, open, non-threatening. "You're in your apartment. Your bedroom. He's not here. He's dead. You're safe."
He reached forward, hand on either side of my waist as he started running them toward my back, putting firm pressure. Not intimate—not in a way that would freak me out. Instead, he was moving his hands up and down, soothing like a parent would do for a scared child.
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to nod—to respond. But I couldn't get enough air. Couldn't—
His hands moved up to the back of my neck, massaging the base of my skull as he said, "Breathe with me." His voice was steady and calm as he leaned his forehead against my temple. "In through your nose. Count of four. One, two, three, four."
I did all I could to follow his pattern. Failed.
"Again. One, two, three, four. Hold it. Two, three, four. Out. Two, three, four."
His voice became an anchor. His right hand still massaging my nape, his left arm wrapping around me in safety. I held his bicep like a lifeboat in the chaos. I followed the count. Slowly—so slowly—the panic began to recede. My breathing steadied. The room stopped spinning.
We sat there, his hand down from my nape to rub my back again. Round and round it went, in circles hypnotizing the fear away. He whispered in my ear, “You’re safe. I’m here.” Repeating himself, over and over again.
I have no idea how long we sat there like that, his whispers settling into the spaces between my pounding heart, my breathing beating a steady rhythm. The nightlight cast long shadows across the wall, shifting imperceptibly as minutes that felt like hours passed.
Finally settled, I grabbed my phone. Can't breathe right. Ribs hurt.
"Want me to call the doctor?"
I shook my head. Just need a minute.
"Okay. I'm here. Take your time."
But the dark was too much. The room felt too big and too small at the same time. The silence pressed in on me from all sides. I couldn't be alone with it. Couldn't face another hour of lying here waiting for the nightmares to come back.
My fingers shook as I typed: Can you stay?
He whispered something I couldn’t quite make out, but I thought it almost sounded like “forever.”
But when I sought his eyes out in question, he said, “For sure," instead. He moved toward the chair by the window. "I'll just—"
I shook my head and patted the bed. No. Not the chair.
He stopped. Glanced at me after reading my message. In the dim glow from the phone, I could see the conflict on his face. The careful consideration of what I was asking and what it might mean.
"Maliyah—"
Please. Just for a while.
He studied my face. Then nodded slowly. "Okay. But you tell me if this isn't right. If it's too much."
It's fine. It wasn't fine. Nothing was fine. But I needed… I didn't know what I needed. Reed carefully lay down on top of the covers beside me, with his back against the headboard.
"Is this okay?" he asked quietly.
I nodded. Then, hesitantly, shifted closer. Felt his arm come around me, mindful of my ribs, holding me like I might break. Maybe I was already broken. But this—this helped. I grabbed my phone one more time.
This doesn't change anything. Don't get ideas.
Reed was quiet for a moment. Then: "I know. Just here to help you sleep."
I should type more. Set more boundaries, establish more rules, or maybe just tell him I changed my mind. But I was so tired, and his heartbeat was steady against my ear as I curled into him as much as my ribs would allow. His arm was warm around me. His breathing was even, reliable.
I typed one more thing: Thank you.
He didn't respond with words. Just tightened his arm slightly around me—a gentle squeeze that said I've got you.
The scent of his t-shirt—clean laundry and something indefinably him—surrounded me. The warmth of his body seeped through my pajamas, chasing away the cold that had lived in my bones since that night. His breathing was steady, a rhythm I could match, could use to ground myself.
My eyes drifted closed and, for the first time since waking up in that hospital, I felt safe enough to let go. I fell asleep in his arms.