I might’ve thought he was relaxed if I hadn’t seen the tension threaded through him. The stubborn tilt of his jaw. The way his fingers flexed every so often, as if they were remembering something that didn’t go down easy. This wasn’t a man at rest. This was a man waiting—coiled, quiet, dangerous.
Just like me.
He wanted me to tell him everything, but my head ached, a deep, dragging pulse behind my eyes. What I really wanted was an hour’s sleep without pain or questions. Then maybe I’d have the strength to think my story through, to hide the bad parts. Win them over so they gave me a place to stop and think.
So, I gave myself time. I reached for the cookie. My hand trembled, and I fucking hated that. I nibbled the edge. My lip burned instantly, and I flinched. Reached up. The skin was split. I didn’t remember that happening.
I remembered the car crash. I recalled the gun. My body reminded me of the bullet slicing into my side—hot, tearing, shock more than pain. I remembered making it the last thirty miles or so, and I remembered Rio’s weight pinning me to a wall -- brutal, like being caught under a landslide -- his hands around my throat.
But the split lip? That detail escaped me.
It felt important somehow. The things I remembered versus the ones I didn’t. The memory gaps weren’t clean—they had jagged edges, as if something had ripped them out too fast. My bladder protested that I needed to move, and I felt nauseous, so I replaced the cookie on the plate. Time to pullevery scrap of sympathy from Rio I could find. It wasn’t an act. Not really. Just the only card I had left.
“Bathroom,” I said, my voice scratchy.
Rio flicked a glance at the door. “It’s right out there.”
I tried to swing my legs off the bed, but the catheter tugged in my arm, pain flared through my ribs, and I gave up far sooner than I should have, with a curse and, then, a whimper.
“Need… piss,” I managed.
Rio walked over to the bed with his mug still in hand. He set it on the table by mine, and I saw the flicker of confusion cross his face.
“Not in…Mug,” I croaked, horrified.
His brows lifted a little. “Wasn’t offering it. I’ll help you,” he said.
That shut me up because it was the first thing he’d said that wasn’t a command. It was almost… gentle. Not soft. Never soft. But something like understanding flickered there, quickly buried. Had he bought my neediness?
Rio stepped closer, unhooked the drip from the stand, then bent and scooped me up as if it was nothing. One arm under my knees, the other behind my back. Honeymoon style.
I hated the squeak that came out of me, but there was no helping it. The shift in position sent pain lancing through my ribs and made my head spin. But more than that, it was the shock. The sheer heat of him, the strength in his arms, the fact someone so steady was handling me as if I weighed nothing. He hadn’t even hesitated.
My heart hammered. Not fear. Not exactly. Just… too much. I wriggled, he tightened his grip briefly, I yelped, he cursed, but somehow, in all of that, we were at the bathroom door. I catalogued the new part of this building that I was being shown. At least one floor up, and I’d checked for an exit, but there was nothing apart from the stairs and a door leading to the fire escape. Even now, too weak to stand—I was checking routes out of here. The window. The angle of the chair Rio had dragged closer. I wasn’t ready to bolt. I wouldn’t make it on the stairs. But that didn’t stop me. It never stopped me. Survival had forced me to learn things I never imagined I’d need to know. It was always running in the background—calculating, preparing for the moment I could run.
“I’ll hold you,” he said as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
I’m not pissing with him holding me.“No,” I muttered, horrified.
He snorted. “Whatever, princess. Can you stand?”
He set me down carefully, letting go, and I immediately pitched forward, my knees buckling under me like wet paper. He caught me, arms steady, not even grunting at the effort, and then—as if it was no big deal—he held me. One arm around my waist, the other braced across my chest, keeping me upright.
I was in a pair of boxers and a too-large T-shirt, and I could feel the heat of him behind me, solid and unyielding. He stood there, supporting my weight, while I awkwardly fumbled to fish myself out. My hands shook. My body ached. The humiliation sat heavy in my chest.
I hoped—prayed—that the whole situation would make my bladder shy.
It didn’t.
I pissed like a racehorse.
And still… he held me.
Not a word. Not a joke. No judgment. Just an unwavering, patient presence.
When I was done, he didn’t let go as he waited for me to tuck away, then guided me to the sink, his hand firm on my back.
He turned the faucet on, squeezed soap into my palm, waited while I washed, then handed me a towel. Dried my hands for me when I started swaying.
