Chapter 47
I brUISE, YOU BURN
RORIE
Pain pulses in my leg with every heartbeat. The infirmary is minimalist and pristine, white lacquer surfaces, glass accents, and lush, green plants.
The air smells faintly of antiseptic and high-end linen spray. It’s cold enough to raise goosebumps. I shift on the exam table—no crinkly paper here, just smooth leather stitched with care—and wince as the motion sends another throb through my thigh.
A beach towel Nolan snatched off a sun lounger in the mad rush over is still wrapped around my thigh, now streaked with blood and sand. The edges are bunched where he tied it in a knot, hands shaking slightly.
Across the room, he paces a few steps one way, then back again.
His fingers twitch at his sides, brushing over the hem of his shirt, then raking through his hair.
Every few seconds, his eyes dart toward me, then away, like he’s debating if now is the right moment to speak.
The silence between us crackles with tension, raw, unsettled, jittery.
I watch him. Watch the way his fingers twitch like he wants to punch something. Watch the way his chest rises and falls in controlled breaths, like he’s trying not to break.
There’s something lurking beneath the surface, coiled, and unsaid—a secret lodged in his throat that he hasn’t worked up the nerve to spit out yet. He thinks if he stays quiet long enough, I won’t notice. But I do. I did. Silence doesn’t erase what Thatcher said. Or what he didn’t.
I give it a second. Let him stew in it. Then, finally—
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “You shut up real quick back there.”
Nolan’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “What?”
I cock a brow. “When Thatcher put his hand on your shoulder, you didn’t say a word.”
“It wasn’t the time or place to argue,” he says, voice clipped.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Just like it wasn’t the time or place to question how you win your accounts?”
His nostrils flare. Still no bite.
“This again?” he grinds out. “I told you, that’s not how we win.”
I tilt my head. “It’s how your teammate does.”
He drags a hand down his face, then drops it, fingers flexing like they want to curl into fists.
“You want the truth?” he says quietly, like it costs him something. “Jackson’s the one undercutting everyone. He’s Thatcher’s nephew. The day after I caught him and Chloe, Thatcher called me in, said he needed someone to ‘groom him for leadership.’”
I blink. “So he made you—”
“Take him under my wing. Smile through it. Pretend it never happened.”
Jesus.
Nolan swallows hard. “You were right, Rorie. About the pricing. About the market. I brought it to Thatcher. Told him we were cutting corners. And you know what he said?”
I wait.
“He said if I wanted to keep my job—and every future opportunity—I’d shut up. Told me if I so much as whispered about Jackson’s bullshit, I’d be blacklisted.”
Silence folds around us again, but it’s different now. He’s not hiding. He’s exposed. Bleeding.
And I feel for him. I really do. But that’s not enough.
I level my gaze. “When are you going to speak up for yourself?”
He blinks, startled. “What?”
“When are you going to stop swallowing your tongue to protect people who don’t give a damn about you? When are you going to fight back? Not for me. Not for Chloe. For you.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just stands there like the floor might split open under his feet.
I lean in. “Have you bled for your job? For Thatcher?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why not for something that fucking matters? Like integrity. Or morals.”
His jaw ticks.
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought?”
Nolan’s expression hardens. Before either of us can say anything else, the door swings open, and the doctor finally strolls in, holding a clipboard and looking vaguely unimpressed.
He slaps on a pair of latex gloves. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”
The doctor starts to slowly unwrap the towel from around my knee, but the fabric sticks to the wound, pulling at the raw skin. I don’t cry out, but it hurts like hell. A strangled groan escapes me, and before I can even wrap my head around it, tears are leaking from the corners of my eyes.
In mere seconds, Nolan is by my side, his hand slipping into mine. I squeeze the absolute shit out of it, gripping like a lifeline, and to my surprise, he doesn’t pull away. He just lets me hold on, his thumb brushing over my knuckles helping me work through the pain.
The next ten minutes are a blur of prodding, poking, and instructions I only half-hear. Something about swelling, rest, and pain management. Then, he picks up a suture kit, pulling on fresh gloves.
“You’re going to need about twelve stitches,” the doctor says, matter-of-fact.
My stomach tightens, but I nod. The doctor retrieves a syringe and injects a numbing agent around the wound, the sting fierce but quick.
“Give it a minute to kick in,” he says, his voice clinical. I breathe through it, feeling the burn fade into a dull pressure.
When he starts stitching, I still feel the tug, the pull of the thread through my skin, but the sharp pain is mostly gone.
My fingers tighten around Nolan’s hand with each pull, my grip relentless. He doesn’t flinch. He keeps his grip steady, his other hand resting lightly on my arm. The numbing agent dulls the worst of it, but I still feel every knot tied off, the sensation foreign but bearable.
And then, the final humiliation.
“She needs to stay off the leg as much as possible for the next twenty-four hours,” the doctor says, scribbling something onto my chart then gesturing to a wheelchair. “Which means—”
“No,” I say immediately.
“Yes,” he counters, already waving Nolan forward. “You’re getting a ride.”
I gape at him. “I can walk.”
Nolan, to his credit, tries to smother the smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Doctor’s orders, Rorie.”
I shoot him a look that could fry him where he stands. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t. With one annoyingly smooth motion, he wheels the chair in front of me and—because this day can always get worse—he lifts me from the table and settles me into it as though I weigh nothing.
I hate the warmth of his arms around me, the way his scent curls into my lungs and I feel like I’ll never be able to exhale. I hate that, even now—with my pride scraped raw and my body stitched together by adrenaline and gauze—I lean into him, drawn to his steadiness.
Because the truth is, I don’t hate him. Not even close.
I love him.
Fiercely. Stupidly. With every broken, terrified piece of me that still believes in something as dangerous as hope.
But I can’t tell him that. Not yet.
Not when everything between us is sparking with contention.
Nolan doesn’t say anything as he pushes me out of the infirmary, but his eyes are on me. And for once since landing on this damn island, I don’t meet his gaze.
I don’t know if I want to see whatever’s in his eyes right now.
We roll past cottage after cottage, and before I know it, we’re back at my room. Nolan pushes me inside, then moves toward the bed, his hands slipping under my legs again.
I open my mouth to protest, but I don’t get the chance. In one fluid motion, he lifts me again and gently places me onto the bed.
He adjusts the pillows behind me, propping up my injured leg and that’s irritatingly thoughtful.
“I can do it myself.”
He shrugs. “Probably. But it wouldn’t have been as fun for me.”
I scowl, but he ignores me, grabbing a bottle of water from the table along with a couple of pills.
“Take these.” His voice is softer than I expect.
I hesitate, but the throbbing in my leg convinces me otherwise. I swallow them down, chasing them with a water, while he sinks onto the edge of the bed.
The air shifts. Suddenly, we’re not bickering. We’re just… here.
His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped together, and when he looks at me, it’s different. Raw.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice quiet.
“About what?”
His fingers tap against his knee before he exhales. “Everything.” He looks away for a second, then back at me. “I’ll take care of it.”
I raise a brow. “Take care of it how?”
His jaw tightens. He meets my gaze. “The right way.”
Nolan means it. But I can’t let it stop there.
“Then do it, Rhodes.” My voice is sharp at the edges. “Not for me. Not for the pitch. For yourself. You don’t owe that man your silence. You don’t owe him your loyalty.”
His brows pull together.
“You’re not his puppet,” I say, softer now. “And you’re sure as hell not his shadow. So stop acting like one.”
A beat of silence swells between us, weighted and full of emotion.
I lean back against the bed, lips twitching. “Besides,” I add, “it’s about time you made a little noise.”
And for the first time since I met Nolan Rhodes, I see it.
A flicker of rebellion.
A fissure in the armor.
The spark of a man ready to set fire to the strings that once held him still.