Her voice has a tremor when she exhales, which she doesn’t bother trying to hide any more than the wince when they enter the bedroom. The entire bed is covered in crimson with a body splayed on the ground like a crime scene. She said she killed that man, and the evidence stares back at them clear as day.
“Shit,” she mumbles. “Forgot he was in here. What with the blinding pain and all.”
“I’ll take care of it later. Come on, there’s a cot in the kennels.”
They shuffle through corridors and into the rehab area where animals cluster at the front of their cages, chattering with eager excitement for visitors. The sound is strangely haunting when paired with their situation, forcing the hair on his forearms to stand on end. He’s going to have to feed them soon. Somehow. Has no idea how long it’s been since they’ve eaten, but at the moment, his focus is on Nora. She is pale and covered in sweat across her forehead and down her neck, refusing to lie flat on the cot and preferring to perch on the edge instead, bent over, pressing hard on her rib cage. The blood has slowed somewhat, but she still lets out a wet cough every few minutes that strikes fear in his gut.
Then there’s the fact that she’s still painted with that bastard’s blood.
“Lemme help you get cleaned up,” he says gently. “You can wear my shirt.”
They don’t have much in the way of spare clothes, but he unbuttons one of his layers and sheds it quickly, leaving him in a dark t-shirt with goosebumps forming on his skin.
“I think I swallowed some of it.” She shivers, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “I used the knife under the pillow. The blood came out so fast. It sprayed at me. So fast.”
Bile climbs his throat. He should have been there. Should have protected her. The fact that he was outnumbered does little to ease his regret.
Her words begin to slur as he gingerly helps her remove her shirt, apologizing when she curses at the pain of lifting her arms. She is bare and shivering and still covered in all that red that soaked through her clothes and stuck to her skin. He grabs atowel off a work table and runs it under the cold water from the sink.
“Easy.” He wipes the fabric over her neck and collar bones, easing it over her breasts and across her middle, careful to avoid where she hurts. “You’re okay.”
“Am I?” she whispers, leaning forward a fraction until their foreheads meet.
“You are. I promise.”
“Thought you couldn’t make any promises.”
“I am anyway. I’m making one right now. You’re gonna be just fine, and that’s all there is to it. How bad is the pain?” There’s a superficial relief in seeing her as clean as she can get without a shower before he helps her into his shirt, closing up the buttons with a trembling hand.
“On a scale of stubbed toe to childbirth, I’m gonna say it’s a six.”
He forces a smile, but it feels thin and hollow. He knows six is a lie. The strain around her eyes tells him it’s closer to an eight. Maybe worse.
“I’ll check the bags. You grabbed a few things from the pharmacy, right? Not just the fentanyl?”
“I can’t take any of that,” she says quickly, the panic in her eyes overshadowing the agony. “I can’t. It’s not an option.”
He knows why she’s so resistant, and logically it makes sense to avoid partaking at all costs, but he isn’t sure handling a broken rib on nothing but willpower is the best plan either. She is afraid of relapsing if she allows herself the smallest amount of relief. He has no idea what his place is when it comes to this. Does he reassure her that he’ll be here to help her through it, no matter what? Does he support her choice to white knuckle it and not push at all? The answer eludes him, so for now he simply agrees, hoping rescue will find them before they need to face this decision head-on.
“Okay. Okay. The plane is coming anyway. He’ll be here soon, he has to be. Then we can get to the safe zone.”
Theo sits beside her, holding her up when she leans against his side. Every breath she takes rattles like slick marbles inside her chest. He wants to hold her tighter, to cage her in with his body and protect her, but all he can do is sit there while she suffers.
“Gwen said not to go.”
“She didn’t know that you’d have broken ribs. There could be a doctor there, but we already know there’s definitely not one here.”
Her breath starts to wheeze, and heat prickles at the corners of his eyes. He can’t lose her. He won’t. If he has to carry her on his back to that safe zone, then he’ll do it. He just fucking found her. Letting fate rip them apart again isn’t an option.
A preemptive whimper escapes her as her stomach lurches. He grabs a trash can to slide in front of her, tentatively rubbing a light hand across her back. Every fiber in her body is pure tension that could snap right under his fingers as they travel between the delicate bones in her spine.
“Does it hurt when I touch you like this?” he asks.
“No, it’s good. Don’t stop.” So he doesn’t. He rubs her back in a smooth cadence while nausea rips through her and she starts to cry from the pain. Holds her against him as softly as he can when she can’t hold herself upright any longer. “Let me help you lie down?”
“It’ll be worse that way. Too much pressure.”
He’s about to pile the pillows up higher so she can at least rest her legs on the cot, but a rumbling sound catches his attention. It’s small at first, barely there at all, then the vibrations increase and his eyes go wide. “It’s the plane. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
