Page 95 of Crashing Tides

He shakes his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I should’ve picked up my phone. I was trying to sleep, and I turned off my ringer because I was so fucking stressed about that argument⁠—”

I wince.

“—and then I missed your call and I just—I knew something was wrong as soon as I heard your voice—” He sounds completely wrecked, raspy and frantic, and I hate that I made him feel this way, that all of this is my fault. “And I woke up Felix and I told him my m—” He catches himself, but I think I know what he was about to say. My stomach lurches. “—that you were in trouble and I needed help tracking you down. I called Jane and I called Aleo, and you weren’t answering your fucking phone, and I just knew you were in danger. And then Jane found your phone, and I could smell that you were terrified when you dropped it.”

“Wait a second,” I say. “Is that how you found me? By smell?”

“Scent, and a lot of good luck,” he says gravely. “I tracked you to the parking lot,” he takes a deep breath here, “and knew you were injured at that point. Jane drove to the beach and saw a parked car and then the light from their boat. So we figured they were taking you out to sea.” He stretches his arms out before him, lifts his palms in a gesture of surrender. “So I, uh, stole a boat.”

I can’t imagine there are boats just lying around the beach, but then I remember the rental companies, the wealthy neighborhoods nearby with private docks and relent. “Is that… Is that like a felony?”

He gives a short, astonished laugh. “I have no idea. I hope nobody ever finds out it was me. Felix broke the camera and I just—” He shrugs. “The rope was frayed. I yanked on it a little bit and it snapped. Hopefully they assume it was an accident.”

Of course he can tear a rope with his bare hands.

“And then what?” It’s kind of surreal, hearing what transpired while I was busy being kidnapped by maniacs.

“We went out to the cliff.” He’s shaking now, looks like he could rattle apart right there in the same chair he does his homework in every night. I want to reach out and touch him, but he’s so far away and I’m afraid it wouldn’t be welcome, that my presence will only make things worse. Something in me shrinks at the thought. “We found where they moored their boat. It, um, smelled like your blood.”

Of course he knows what my blood smells like, I think absently, too tired to be surprised.

“And then we found that fucking tunnel and I thought that—” Here, Duncan starts to cry in earnest, great gasping sobs that shake his shoulders. At this, I’m horrified enough to sit up, to climb painfully to my feet. Eyes brimming, he admits, “I thought they were fucking gutting you in there.”

This isn’t exactly untrue, but I can’t stand to see him like this. “Hey,” I murmur, a little bit frantic, pulling him into my arms even though it jostles my aching ribs and pulls at my stitches. He folds into my embrace, clings hard, shudders fiercely. My stomach is wet where his face presses against it. “Hey, it’s—I’m OK,” I tell him, and he shivers again, making a noise just short of a howl. “It’s gonna be fine.”

At this, he draws back to look up at me, eyes shining, tears pouring down his face. “No,” he says. “It’s not. At some point, somebody else is going to try this⁠—”

Fuck. That hadn’t even occurred to me. “I can learn some self-defense⁠—”

His face is mashed against my chest. I wonder if I smell like dried blood. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

“That doesn’t change reality.”

When he exhales, his breath is hot against the layers of gauze under my shirt. “You’re right.”

I run my fingers through his hair, hold onto him. I have no idea if we’re broken up or not, if I should be touching him like this, but I can’t leave him to sob alone. Every gasp is like a serrated knife, driving into me.

I did this to him.

I should probably go. Rid his life of me and all my problems. But I can’t walk away when he’s holding me so tight that it hurts, like I’m the only thing keeping him together.

Eventually, he mumbles, “You should probably get back in bed.”

And he’s right, I probably should. But I don’t want to leave him like this, so I say, “You should come with.”

“I—” He shakes his head. “I thought you were pissed at me.”

Tugging on his arm, I say, “Come on.”

He gets up like he’s in pain and I realize for the first time that maybe he is, that maybe he got hurt in those halls, too, and I just didn’t realize it.

“I’m sorry it’s so messy,” he says, helping me down onto the mattress, then sitting on the edge of the bed by my knees.

“I didn’t give you a heads’ up.” Then, nervously, I ask, “Were you hurt?”

He blinks at me. “Not really. I got a few scrapes in. Nobody stabbed me or anything.”

“I thought it hurt to stop halfway through a change,” I protest.