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 finallywins. I yawn once; deep and heavy, and let sleep overtake me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
~ Hideous ~
Kit
I wake up slowly, the world filtering in through layers of fog and pain. My throat is dry and raw, like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. My eyes feel heavy and weary, crusty at the corners. And my face…God, my face feels tight, like the skin is being pulled together too hard, stretched and burning. I reach up in a daze, fingers brushing toward the source of the discomfort, not fully understanding why it hurts so much.
A gentle hand catches mine before I can touch it. “Oh no, dear,” Lorraine’s voice says softly, warm and familiar. “Don’t touch it.”
I let her hold my hand, blinking slowly as I try to open my eyes properly. She’s sitting casually in a chair beside the bed, knitting needles clicking quietly in her lap like she’s been there for a while. Wait… the bed… where am I? My gaze flicks around the room, hazy and unfocused. It looks familiar… soft lighting, familiar furniture rearranged.
Lorraine must notice my confusion because she sets her knitting down and squeezes my hand. “You’re in one of the smaller living rooms, Kit. So the doctor had room to work on you.”
My voice comes out croaked, barely a whisper. “W-work… on me?”
Lorraine smiles sadly, her thumb stroking the back of my hand. “You needed thirty stitches, sweetheart. He did a good job with it.”
“Oh…”
The memory slams back… the blade, the scream, the blood. My face drops, the tight pull of the stitches making the movement hurt even more.
Lorraine strokes my knuckles gently. “You’re home now, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
I nod, noticing it’s only Lorraine in the room. My voice is so dry, the words scraping up my throat. “I’m glad… I’m not… ruining anyone’s day.”
Lorraine frowns, confused, then lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, sweetheart… everyone’s done nothingbutworry and search for you.”
