Chapter Twenty-Four
~ He’s Safe ~
Soren
I hang up from Ralph’s call, the phone still warm in my hand. A storm of emotions crashes through me all at once.
First, relief, sharp and overwhelming… Kit’s safe. He’s alive. Ralph will get him back to the estate quickly and have Doctor Brown look him over immediately. The knot in my chest loosens just a fraction.
But right on its heels comes the annoyance, hot and bitter.
I didn’t get to him first. I wasn’t the first face he saw when he stumbled out of the dark.
A part of me wonders how Kit is even feeling about me now.
If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t be tangled up in any of this mess.
For all I know, he could resent me, hate me, and I’m not looking forward to finding out.
Still… God, I can’t wait to see him. But I’m scared too.
I saw what Finn did to his face… the long, ugly cut slicing across his cheek, over the bridge of his nose, and up through his brow.
I’ve seen plenty in my line of work, but not something like that.
Not on someone as small and soft as Kit.
The image is burned behind my eyelids, and it makes my stomach turn.
Armen’s voice breaks the silence. “What did Ralph say, boss?”
I put the phone away and clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Ralph’s got the kid.”
Armen pauses, eyes widening. “He’s got Christopher?”
I nod once.
Armen breaks into a wide smile. “Seriously?! That’s great!”
Selina claps her hands together and lets out a heavy sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck!”
They’re all smiling, even the boat captain, but I can’t bring myself to join them. The relief is there, but it’s tangled with too many other things.
Armen reaches over and pats my upper arm. “Ain’t you happy, boss?”
I clench my jaw. “Of course.”
I don’t miss the quick look Selina and Armen share in my peripheral vision.
My mind is already racing ahead. How the fuck did Kit get from that boat all the way to the marina on his own? He could have hurt himself, could have drowned from sheer weakness. He couldn’t have swam that distance. The thought of him struggling alone in the water makes my chest tighten again.
I turn to the captain. “Rod, when we leave, I want you to go back out and deal with the boat.”
Rod nods without hesitation. “Of course, sir. It’ll be at the bottom of the ocean before anyone suspects.”
I nod. “Good man.”
◆◆◆
Thirty minutes later we’re finally pulling into the driveway, the gates closing smoothly behind us.
It’s felt like the longest half-hour of my life.
My knee’s been bouncing the entire ride, my fingers drumming against my thigh, willing the car to move faster.
I undo my seatbelt the second the wheels stop rolling and climb out before the engine is even off, boots hitting the gravel hard.
Then jog straight to the front doors, hearing the others just as eager behind me, their footsteps quick and urgent.
I stride inside and down the hall until I see Ralph standing guard outside the room where I told him to take Kit. He looks tired but relieved.
“Hey, boss,” he says quietly. “Uh… Doc asked me to tell you not to go in yet.”
I frown instantly, annoyance flaring hot in my chest. “What? Why?”
Ralph shifts his weight. “You know the doc works much quicker without distractions.”
I clench my jaw, but I know he’s right. I pay Doctor Brown for his efficiency, even if it means the man lacks some level of bedside manner… which is funny, considering his profession.
I inhale sharply. “How long’s he gonna be?”
“He only started about ten minutes ago,” Ralph replies. “He wanted to get a proper bed set up for him first.”
I frown deeper.
Ralph sees the look on my face and continues carefully.
“After I spoke to you, I rang the doc before we arrived. Told him the situation. He had some guys rearrange the furniture and… well, he’s basically turned it into a hospital room in there.
He thinks Kit’s gonna need to rest for at least a few days.
When he’s done with Kit’s face, he rattled on about Kit needing all sorts of shit…
you know… vitamins, liquids to hydrate him, possibly a drip feed if Kit can’t keep food down. ”
I nod, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. “Thanks for letting me know, Ralph. You did good.”
Ralph nods. “Yeah, uh… I didn’t comment on his face in front of him, but… it’s not good, boss.”
I purse my lips, trying to keep my emotions in check.
Selina whispers beside me, “How bad though? Like… are we talking… Armen might cry?”
Armen scoffs immediately. “Excuse me, I don’t cry!”
Selina laughs softly.
Ralph nods, serious. “Yeah, I’d say.”
Armen’s face drops. “Shit… wait, what… you’re serious?”
Ralph nods again. “I carried him in but… man, I just couldn’t look at his face. Finn deserved what Kit did to him. Worse, if you ask me.”
I start pacing behind them all now, rubbing my temples hard, just listening. The guilt and rage twist together in my gut like barbed wire.
Selina asks quietly, “So what’s the doc doing?”
“He’s putting Kit under general anaesthetic,” Ralph answers. “Finn had slapped a load of butterfly strips over Kit’s face, but when the doc took them off I nearly puked… he needs a lot of stitches.”
Selina tries to sound hopeful. “Well, it’ll look better than it did, right? It’ll eventually heal nicely.”
I can’t take this conversation anymore. The images from the video are flashing behind my eyes again. “I need a word with the doc. I need to know how long this is gonna take.”
They all move out of my way without a word.
I inhale sharply, the air feeling too thin in my lungs, then knock once on the door, a single rap, before gently pushing it open.
The overhead light is on, steady and clinical, casting sharp shadows across the room.
For a moment I can’t see Kit. My eyes dart past the nurse standing on the far side of the bed, her gloved hands busy adjusting a drip, monitors beeping softly in the background.
I say quietly, “I know you don’t want me interrupting, Doc, but I just need to know how long this is gonna take.”
Doctor Brown turns to me with the most sympathetic look I’ve ever seen from him.
“I’m gonna need about an hour, Mr. Sinclair.
The anaesthetic has only just fully kicked in.
I’m just about to start cleaning the wound.
I’m not sure you’ll want to see Christopher like this. I understand he’s important to you?”
I nod and swallow hard. “How bad is it?”
The doc sighs. “I’ll do my best, but… he’s going to have a scar for the rest of his life, and it’s going to take about a year for the wound to mature and settle into an atrophic state.”
I nod, throat tight. For some stupid fucking reason I say, “Let me see him.”
Doc nods. “Very well.”
He steps to the side, holding his sterile gloved hands slightly in the air as I move closer.
My breath hitches and my eyes instantly water as my gaze lands on him.
Oh, Kit. The wound is brutal. The doc has spread the skin apart, presumably to give it a good clean.
The cut runs raw, red, and angry. I cover my mouth with my hand, the sight hitting me hard.
I’ve never felt more human than I do in this moment…
helpless and utterly fucking devastated.
Doc says gently, “As you can see, I’ve had to shave his brow. That will never grow back the same. He’ll always have a gap where the scar runs through.”
I nod, voice barely a whisper. “Come and get me as soon as you’re done.”
I walk backwards to the door and step out, closing it behind me. A single tear slips free before I can stop it.
Armen sees me and instantly mutters, “Shit.”
Ray’s here now, he must have returned while I was inside. He steps forward and pats my shoulder, voice low and steady. “Soren… let’s get a drink, yeah?”
It’s the way Ray talks to me when he knows I need a steady friend rather than a second-in-command. I nod and let him drag me by the arm toward the bar.
I numbly sit in one of the leather chairs, staring at nothing, unblinking, wiping the stupid tear tracks away with the back of my hand. I don’t get emotional. I don’t cry, especially not in front of people.
Others pile into the room and sit around, no one else daring to sit near me.
Ray comes back and hands me a glass, then sits in the chair beside me. “How long does the doc want?”
I whisper, voice coarse, “About an hour.”
Ray nods. “He’s safe now. He’s back home. That’s the most important thing.”
I nod and take a big, burning gulp of the drink, the whiskey scorching down my throat. Then I mutter, “This is all my fault.”
Ray leans forward. “No. You’re not beating yourself up over this. Finn did that to him. Finn, not you, Soren.”
I put the glass down and lean my elbows on my knees, mumbling, “His face, Ray… you should have seen his fucking face.”
Ray nods quietly. “The doc is good. You know that. He’ll do the best job anyone could. Just an hour, yeah? That’s it. Just one more hour.”
◆◆◆
I’ve been sitting here for what feels like an eternity, the same glass of whiskey barely touched, the ice long melted into a watery film.
The room is thick with silence… a heavy, fearful kind of quiet, mixed with respect for the boy I kept locked away; the one I never let anyone truly interact with.
God, I’m a selfish, terrible person. And yet they all care, they all saw him, they’ve lived under the same roof for two years.
They know who he is, even if they never really got to know him.
The door finally opens slowly. Doctor Brown sticks his head in and gestures with a gloved hand. “Mr. Sinclair… a moment?”
I clear my throat, the sound rough, and nod. I stand and follow him out into the hallway. We walk a few steps away from the door before he speaks, his hands gesturing calmly as he explains.
“I’ve done the best I can,” he says, voice measured and professional. “He’s got thirty stitches in total. Some dissolvable ones deeper down, keeping the tissue together. The non-dissolvable ones on the surface level will need to come out in four days, so they don’t leave additional scarring.”
I nod, listening, my jaw tight.
The doc continues, gesturing toward the room ahead.
“I’ve got him on a saline drip with added electrolytes and a nutrient solution to address the malnourishment…
he’s severely dehydrated. We’re pushing fluids and vitamins slowly to avoid shocking his system.
I’ve also started him on a broad-spectrum antibiotic through the IV because the wound wasn’t cleaned immediately.
Infection risk is high with a cut like that, especially one that deep and contaminated.
He should rest in bed for at least a few days.
He can take the drip stand with him to the toilet, but he needs to let his body recharge.
No stress, no excitement. Just sleep and monitoring for now. ”
He pauses, giving me a moment to process.
I nod again, the weight of his words settling like lead in my chest. “Thank you, Doc. Really.”
He offers a small, sympathetic smile and opens the door for me. “He might not wake up for a couple of hours.”
I nod once more and step inside. The main overhead light is off.
Only the standing lamp in the corner is on, casting a warm, gentle glow across the room.
The doc closes the door softly behind me, probably heading to his office or speaking with his nurse somewhere down the hall. It’s just me and Kit now.
I walk closer, the quiet beeping of the monitors the only sound. I pull a nearby chair over, from one of the tables that’s been moved out of the way, and bring it right beside the bed. Then I just… sit… and stare at him.
He looks so fragile lying there… his small body swallowed by the white sheets, an IV line taped to the back of his hand, tubes running to the monitors.
His face is stitched, the long cut cleaned and closed, but still raw and angry.
The doc did a real good job, but the scar will be there forever.
In a year it might fade to a thin silver line, but right now it’s brutal.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and just watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. My eyes trace the stitches, the bruising around his eye, the way his dark curls are matted against his forehead from sweat and blood.
I wonder if he hates me now. I wonder if, when he wakes up, the first thing he’ll feel is fear… or resentment. Because if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have been taken… he wouldn’t have that scar.
He’s so fucking handsome, even like this.
The soft curve of his jaw, the long lashes resting against his pale cheeks, the way his lips are slightly parted in sleep.
I reach out without thinking and brush a stray curl away from his forehead, my tattooed fingers looking too rough, too big against his skin.
A single tear slips free before I can stop it. I wipe it away quickly, but another follows. I’m not supposed to cry, not me. But right now, sitting here beside the boy I took in, the boy I broke, the boy I failed to protect… I do.
I whisper, voice barely there, “I’m so sorry, Kit…”
◆◆◆
I’ve been wiping tears off my face for a few minutes now, the back of my hand coming away wet again and again. Each time I think I’ve got it under control, another one slips free. The monitors beep steadily beside the bed, a constant, clinical reminder that Kit’s here, alive, but hurt.
If he wakes up and blames me… if he looks at me with those wide green eyes and tells me he wants to leave… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to hold him again. The thought is unbearable.
I stand up slowly, legs stiff from sitting so long, and kick my shoes off. I shrug out of my jacket and sling it onto the nearby chair without caring where it lands. Then I move around the bed to the side with more space, the one away from the IV stand and monitors.
I lift the edge of the covers and slide in carefully.
The bed isn’t massive, but it’s big enough for both of us.
I manoeuvre gently, rolling Kit slightly onto his good side, until his back rests against my chest. I make sure the soft pillow is still cradling his fragile, stitched-up face, protecting the wound as best I can.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray with everything I have left that this isn’t the last time Kit lets me hold him.
I pull the covers up over both of us, tucking them around his smaller frame, and wrap one arm around his waist, holding him close. My other hand rests lightly against his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.
I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the faint scent of him that still clings to his hair despite everything. Then I close my eyes.
I haven’t slept properly, not really. Just a couple of hours here and there, restless and broken. But with Kit now warm and safe against me, the exhaustion finally wins. I yawn once; deep and heavy, and let sleep overtake me.