It had to have been longer than the hour the other man had promised. Had they forgotten about me? Or was Rio still sitting there, making sure no one came back to finish me, but him?
I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask.
“B-bathroom.” My head was spinning so much I wasn’t sure I’d make it two steps without passing out. The words came out in a whisper, but Rio stood the moment I spoke. No hesitation. He crossed the room, tugged back the sheet, and I winced at the smell that hit me—me. Ripe. Sour. Underneath it, the metallic tang of blood.
He didn’t wrinkle his nose. He didn’t say a word, only moved as if it didn’t matter. As though I weren’t disgusting.
At least this time, he didn’t have to unhook anything. I wasn’t sure when the drip had come out—whether someone had done it while I was asleep or if I’d yanked it free during a dream.
Then, he scooped me up and carried me to the bathroom.
I prayed he wouldn’t drop me. Prayed harder he wouldn’t leave. The moment I whispered, “sick,” I expected him to set me down and walk away.
He didn’t.
He held me while I pissed, arms steady; held me when I retched over the toilet, until it was apparent nothing was coming up. I inhaled sharp breaths as he held my hair back from my face, and leaned on him, catching sight of the shower and staring at it as if it was salvation. I wanted to be clean. I needed it. The grime on my skin, the dried sweat, the stink of fear and pain—it clung to me. I wanted to scrub it all away. I wanted to clear the fuzz from my brain, brush my teeth, rinse the sourness out of my mouth.
It felt stupid. Petty. But it was important. I wanted to feel human again and be someone who could worm their way into Rio’s affections, play him so I could get away.
Even if only for a minute.
“Shower,” I rasped, the word rough and cracked. I swallowed hard. “Teeth…”
There was a long pause. Then, he sighed, a lowsound that could’ve meant anything before he adjusted his grip so he could hold me with one arm while reaching to turn on the faucet in the basin with the other.
“Shower’s too much,” he said. “You’ll pass out.”
He said it matter-of-factly as I lowered my gaze and bit my lip before nodding, then eased me onto the closed toilet lid and fetched what I needed from beneath the sink.
“Toothbrush. Paste,” he muttered and slapped them in my lap, and then, he ran the washcloth under the warm water, wrung it out, and knelt in front of me.
He began to wipe the cloth across my face—carefully, as though I’d break—and it took everything I had not to cry again, the same as when he’d defended me. Fuck, these meds are wrecking my psyche.
I couldn’t squeeze the tube of toothpaste, I couldn’t brush my fucking teeth, I couldn’t bear the pressure of the cloth on my skin, but he helped, and he held me, and somehow, I felt better. My head was full of cotton, every thought sluggish and slow, words slipping away before I could catch them, as if I wasn’t even fully in my own body. In all the times this had happened to me, all the people sent to hurt me, I’dnever felt so fucked up. He sprayed deodorant in my pits and, then, stepped back, one hand on my shoulder, to stare at me.
“Shower tomorrow,” he said.
If I’m still alive.The words twisted in my head, bitter and sharp, the only thing I could cling to. Was he handing me over to Kessler? Would he kill me himself? I pressed a hand to his chest—maybe too hard, maybe a stupid move—but I needed the solid weight of him under my palm. Needed to know if he’d shove me away, or if this was my last second to speak. My fingers curled, and I forced myself to meet his steady judgmental gaze. Whatever came next, I wouldn’t beg. I needed to know if this was it.
He grunted again, and I focused on a gnarly bruise over his left eye, and evidently, this was all the reaction I was going to get. I knew how people worked. How to read the tilt of a head, the shift of a glance. How to survive with nothing but instinct and desperation. But right now… right now, I couldn’t get a read on him. Everything felt as if I was missing something critical, something right in front of me but slipping through my fingers. I shivered hard, the cold sinking deeper into my bones, and couldn’t tell if it was the fever or fear. And I needed every scrap of instinct I had left just to stop him from snapping me in half.
He scooped me up again—no effort, no complaint—and carried me back into the bedroom, although he didn’t set me down on the bed. Instead, he deposited me into the armchair, handling me as if I were something fragile, then pointed at me.
“Stay.”
I nodded, but it felt as if my head was going to explode. “Mmm,” I said on a low groan, and hell, none of the groaning was an act. Fuck my life.
With that, he turned to the bed. He stripped it quickly, movements efficient and practiced. Sheets off, balled tight, tossed to the floor. Fresh linen came from a plastic-wrapped pack in the wardrobe, unfolded and smoothed with precision. The pillows were flipped, and the blanket was replaced. Not a flicker of emotion on his face—just method and motion, as if he’d done this a hundred times.
I watched, quiet, overwhelmed, and unsure what this meant as he glanced back at me every so often. I wondered if he thought I’d run. Chance would be a fine thing. Still, whatever he expected me to do, my jailer-cum-carer-cum-protector had made space for me again. Clean space. Safe space.
“N-need Jamie,” I whispered.
He came to me then, crouched low, his gaze locked on mine as if he was daring me to flinch. “Jamie found your name all over Kessler’s files,” he said.
Every nerve ending screamed under my skin, a raw ache that made me feel flayed open. The fever gnawed at my brain, a relentless, pulsing heat that blurred my vision and made every breath a shallow, painful drag. My skin prickled with cold even as sweat beaded along my spine, and my thoughts kept slipping, floating in and out as if I was underwater. I was shivering, shaking so hard I couldn’t hold my own weight. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t trust what I was seeing, and everything about Rio felt huge and dangerous and impossible to read.
The door opened and one man, then two, then all of them—boots on floorboards—came into the room in a slow, heavy wave, arranged like a firing squad waiting for a command.
