The second I move, it hits. A full-body flare of white-hot pain, sharp enough to steal the air straight out of my lungs. It explodes up my thigh, a screaming pulse that rips straight through muscle and nerve and whatever stubborn ego I had left. My head snaps back, eyes rolling, and I might actually black out again for half a second because the walls tilt and my stomach flips and holy fuck.
Before I can curse, before I can even fall back on my own, Rafe is there. Like he didn’t even get up—like he was already moving before I moved. One big hand lands flat on my chest, shoving me back against the mattress with a force that doesn’t hurt but leaves no room for argument. His body leans over mine, heavy and unyielding, and for a second all I can feel is his palm over my sternum and the heat of him above me.
“Don’t move.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a fucking law.
His voice is low and lethal, all gravel and steel, like he’ll snap every bone in my body himself if I try that shit again. His eyes burn into mine, stormy and pissed, jaw tight like he’s holding something back. I don’t know if it’s rage or relief. Probably both.
“I’ve had worse,” I lie through my teeth, the words gritty and strained, breath caught under the weight of pain and him.
He doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t dignify it with a response. Just keeps his hand on my chest, pressure steady, like he knows I’m full of shit.
And yeah—maybe I am. Because I’ve never had worse. Not even close. Not in the league. Not in the alley fights. This is the worst. And I’ve never felt more alive.
“You’re so fucking stupid,” Rafe growls, the words spat through clenched teeth, not loud but venomous, full of grit and barely-leashed fury. His hand is still on my chest, pinning me like I might try to sit up again and do something even dumber. Which I probably would, if not for the fire eating through my leg. His eyes burn into mine, not just angry—furious. Not just furious—wrecked.
But I can’t help it. The pain is brutal, my throat’s dry, my whole body feels like it’s been scraped raw by God’s worst sandpaper—and still, still, I try to grin. “But…” I croak, mouth tugging into something weak and cracked and still too smug, “did we win?”
He doesn’t answer.
So I push it.
“We won, right?” I ask, blinking up at him, voice a little breathless, grin twitching at the corner. “There were like… what, three minutes left when I went down? That’s enough. We had it. There’s no way we didn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“No, but—”
And then he fucking kisses me hard. It’s not grateful-you’re-alive-let’s-hold-hands shit. It’s all teeth and punishment and fury, like he’s trying to kiss the stupidity out of me, like he’s sealing his palmprint into my chest with his mouth now, like he needs me to feel it so deep I never pull this shit again.
I gasp into it—because holy fuck, yes, please—but he doesn’t give me space to breathe. His mouth crashes against mine again, rough, bruising and hot. His hand slides up from my chest to my jaw, grabbing it tight, tilting my face the way he wants it, and I just let him, because this—this is so much better than the pain.
He bites my lip and I moan like I’m not supposed to.
Like I didn’talmost die.
Like I wouldn’t do it again just to feel him like this—unhinged.
And when he finally breaks the kiss, breathing hard, glare still molten, he doesn’t pull away. He just stays there, forehead nearly touching mine, voice low enough to kill.
“We won,” he mutters, mouth brushing mine. And it fucking wrecks me.
His eyes drag over me, checking again, still looking for signs I’m dying despite the fact that I’m clearly conscious and clearly not going anywhere. Then, without a word, he grabs a plastic bottle of water off the small metal counter next to my bed, unscrews the cap with one hand, jams a straw in it, and turns back to me like this is the next act of war.
He holds it out. Right in front of my face. The straw hovers an inch from my mouth, like he’s daring me to say something about it. Like he knows what this looks like and just doesn’t give a fuck.
I blink up at him.
My arms aren’t broken. My hands work just fine. I could take the bottle from him. I could drink by myself. I’m not paralyzed—I just got stabbed in the goddamn thigh, not the spine. But the way he holds it? That big hand gripping the bottle like he’ll force-feed me if I resist? The stare? The tension still vibrating off him from the second he walked into my line of sight?
Yeah, no. I don’t take it.
I lean forward instead, lips parting around the straw, and I drink.
The water’s cold, and it hits my throat like a punch after all the screaming, all the blood, all the painkillers and whatever-the-fuck Kai probably pumped into my veins. It tastes like clarity. Like metal and survival. Rafe watches me the whole time, unreadable, eyes dark, thumb twitching like he wants to do something else with his hands but doesn’t know what.
I suck in a few more sips. Don’t say a word.
