Through the window, the runway falls into darkness, and the desert quickly becomes nothing but a stretch of ghost lights and shadows. I take a deep breath and exhale weeks of tension, finally having a reprieve from scanning for threats and trying to keep my focus on protecting her.Instead of having her.
Turning toward her, I survey the damage inflicted on her body under the soft glow of the cabin’s lights. It’s my first real look at her, and she looks like hell. Her eye is swollen, and purple bruising swirls over parts of her cheeks. Exhaustion is etched into every line of her face. But in spite of it all, there’s a shimmer of defiance that makes my chest ache.She’s fucking beautiful.
When the plane levels, I loosen my tight grip, but I don’t let go of her hand. I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to.
Damon appears from the front of the cabin with a small medical kit. He looks at the two of us, mentally triaging who requires attention first. “Let me take a look at both of you,” he says, already cracking open the latch on the case.
“Take care of Reese,” I tell him before he can start with me. My tone leaves no room for argument. She opens her mouth to protest, but Damon just kneels in front of her seat.
“Reese,” he says quietly, glancing up at her, “may I?”
She nods, and he begins his assessment. He starts with her face, gently pressing around the bruising along her jaw. Even careful contact makes her flinch. He mutters something under his breath and moves lower, checking the tiny gash along her jaw.
Then he hesitates, with his hand hovering at the hem of her shirt. “I need to check for rib fractures. Is that okay?”
She agrees hesitantly, “Yeah. Go ahead.”
The second he lifts the fabric, the air is gone from my lungs. Bruises. Everywhere. Deep, ugly things—purple fading to yellow, the kind that make you ache just looking at them. My hand tightens around hers until I feel her squeeze back, gentle but firm. “I’m okay,” she whispers.
But I’m not.
The sight hits me harder than any bullet ever could. Every mark on her skin feels like one on my conscience. I failed her. I wasn’t there when she needed me. I told myself I’dprotect her, and this…thisis what protection looks like when you fail.
Damon works silently, professional and efficient, as his hands roam over her skin. When he’s done, he lowers her shirt carefully. “Sheisokay,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Everything looks superficial. Painful, but nothing broken or internal from what I can tell.”
Reese exhales in relief. I don’t. My jaw locked too tight for words.
“Your turn,” Damon says, snapping on a new pair of gloves.
I want to argue, but I’m too tired to pretend I don’t hurt. My side is a mess of bruises from the accident, and the bandages on my shoulder are damp with blood. Damon prods gently, frowning. “You need your stitches redone. And rest.”
“Later,” I grumble.
“Now,” he counters, threading a needle before I can stop him. “You being stubborn isn’t helping you heal.”
Reese sits up, watching every movement, her eyes filled with worry. She tightens her hold as Damon works. The sting of the needle barely registers. All I feel is her hand—small, trembling, but certain.
When Damon finally finishes, he tapes the bandage, packs up the kit, and sighs. “You two are lucky as hell.”
Jagger appears from the forward cabin, a smirk barely hidden under the exhaustion lining his face. He’s holding a bundle of clean clothes. “I pulled out a set for each of you,” he says, nodding toward the Aegis logo on the sweats. “It’s along flight. Both of you should get cleaned up and get some sleep.”
Reese gives him a faint, grateful smile. I nod, already rising though my body protests every movement. Though I try to hold it in, I cannot keep from groaning as I stand.
“Come on,” I insist quietly, extending my hand to her.
A tiny smile pulls at the edge of her lips as she reaches up. I lead her down the narrow aisle, toward the small restroom at the back of the plane. The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us in. She stands close in the confined space, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, and I can see how much the exhaustion has taken from her.
“Let me,” I say, stepping closer.
“Chris…”
“Please,” I whisper. “Just let me do this.”
She doesn’t argue. She lifts her arms and lets me pull her shirt over her head. I work carefully, stripping away the bloodstained fabric, the dirt-smudged pants, until she’s standing in front of me, vulnerable and quiet in the pale light.
There’s nothing sexual in the way I touch her. This isn’t about want or need. This is solely about care. About my desperate need to fix what I didn’t uphold, failing at my promise to never let anything hurt her again.
I wet a washcloth under the small faucet, wring it out, and bring it to her skin. She shivers as I trace it over her neck, across her collarbone, down the curve of her arm. Everystreak of dirt that fades under my hand feels like erasing some part of what they did to her.
