He waves me off with the hand still holding the gun. “Get going now. He needs medical attention. A doctor is waiting in your usual hotel room.”
He really has thought of fucking everything. Now I kind of feel guilty for hanging up on him the way I did before.
I can’t handle more guilt right now, though, so I shove it away and leave the warehouse with Landon in my arms.
Landon has a busted lip, a black eye, various cuts and bruises, and a dislocated shoulder.
I watch as he lies on the hotel bed, still unconscious but freshly cleaned of blood, as the doctor wraps up taking vitals and gives me some more reassurance. Then he leaves.
Truly, I should feel relieved. Other than losing his gift, Landon faces no real medical concerns. But all I can see in my mind’s eye is his look of hate, his broken expression, and the way he so readily accepted his death.
I can hear his brutal screaming, the way he said he hated me with so much conviction. The biggest part of me knows there is no rectifying this. That I am the one at fault here, and it doesn’t matter how much I tried to protect him in the end—I am the reason he’s in pain.
Though with the EP searching for Benji, I have a feeling they would have learned of Landon sooner or later, even without my help.
I’m not sure exactly at what point I stopped hating him. I know that one moment I felt an overwhelming disgust, and then it faded into this: a mild annoyance with his existence and a strong, desperate need to keep him.
But I guess it truly doesn’t matter, not when he’ll leave as soon as he wakes up.
I lie next to him, taking in this battered face and his rising and falling chest. The proof that he’s here, breathing and alive.
Landon no longer has the power of coercion, and I know that as soon as he’s conscious, that reality is going to crush him all over again.
Losing your gift is like losing the most precious, most important piece of yourself. And the devastating part of all of this is that Landon wasn’t inherently evil. My desperation to fix this world, to right my family’s wrongs, made me see him as a monster who needed fixing.
But the truth is, Landon didn’t need fixing. He needed someone to understand him. To fight him and praise him.
I could have continued to give him that. If I hadn’t let my anger get the best of me, I could have fought him for the rest of our lives.
And as I finally drift off to sleep for the first time in far too long, all I can feel is regret.
I awake to movement. Someone is shuffling around on the bed next to me, and as a quiet hiss reaches my ears, I remember the night before.
My eyes pop open, my hand whipping out to wrap around Landon’s wrist where he’s sitting up next to me in his sling.
“What the fuck?” he snaps, giving me a pointed glare that is only emphasized by his black eye.
“Don’t move too much,” I tell him. “You’re injured.”
“And whose fault is that?” he shoots back, ripping his wrist from my grasp.
With a defeated sigh, I sit up, rubbing at my stinging eyes. I haven’t slept nearly enough.
“How long have I been here?” Landon asks, his eyes peering at the little streak of sunlight peeking in through the closed curtains.
“You were at the warehouse for five days, and you’ve been here for a few hours,” I explain, doing my best to keep my voice level.
What did they do to him in those five days? What has he endured?
“Fuck,” he groans. “My family is gonna be so pissed.”
“Is now the time to worry about that? Your shoulder is dislocated, and you look like you’ve been hit by a bus.” I stare pointedly at his sling.
Landon’s glare snaps back to meet my eyes, his body trembling with rage as he stands. “You know what, Nathaniel? Fuck you. Fuck youandthat backwards organization. What did I do to deserve that?”
Great. I’m back to beingNathaniel.
“You didn’t deserve it,” I assure him gently. “I was just blinded by my anger and—”
