The doorknob turns silently under my palm, the lock disengaging with a barely audible click. I hold my breath, waiting for Ares to stir, but the snoring continues unabated. Carefully, I pull the door open just enough to peer through the gap.
Ares sits slumped in a wooden chair outside my door, his massive frame somehow contained in the too-small seat. His head is tilted back against the wall, mouth slightly open ashe sleeps. In the dim hallway light, with his guard down and features relaxed, he looks almost peaceful—a stark contrast to the coiled violence he usually projects.
Like a dragon sleeping on a mountain, I think, the image so fitting it almost makes me smile. Even at rest, there’s something dangerous about him, something that warns: approach at your own risk.
I should wake him. The proper, considerate thing would be to let him know I’m leaving my self-imposed isolation. But waking him means facing him, talking to him, acknowledging what happened between us through that door during my heat. The memory alone makes heat rise to my cheeks, embarrassment twisting in my stomach.
No. Better to slip past while he sleeps. I can always claim I didn’t want to disturb him if confronted later.
I open the door wider, wincing at the slight creak of old hinges. Ares doesn’t stir. I step into the hallway, my borrowed socks silent against the worn floorboards. The safehouse is quiet, the kind of heavy silence that settles in the dead of night when everyone else is asleep.
Or gone.
Distantly, I wonder what we’ll do if Poe and Logan never return. Anything could have been waiting for them at that meeting, not to mention just the danger of being recognized in the streets.
The more realistic part knows better. Logan always comes back. As much as it pains me to admit, the man is indomitable.
I move down the hallway, every sense alert. My fingers trail along the wall, using it as a guide in the dim light and to steady legs that haven’t had to support my weight for hours. Each step takes me further from the safety of my locked room, and I can’t decide if the flutter in my chest is fear or exhilaration.
Maybe both.
My feet carry me forward without conscious direction, turning corners and navigating the darkened house as if drawn by an invisible thread. It’s only when I find myself approaching a partially open door, light spilling from within, that I realize where I’m headed.
Cillian’s room.
I stop, suddenly uncertain. Why am I here? What am I hoping to find? Cillian has been a ghost since our escape from the doctor’s compound—present in theory but absent in reality. Ares mentioned he was recovering, that his wounds were serious but not fatal, that he needed rest more than anything.
But that was days ago, and the worry that’s been gnawing at the edges of my mind hasn’t subsided. If anything, it’s grown stronger, feeding on my isolation and imagination until I can’t ignore it anymore.
I need to see him. Need to know he’s alright. Need to see with my own eyes that he survived.
The door stands ajar, a sliver of golden light beckoning. I approach cautiously, peering through the gap. The room beyond is sparse—a bed, a dresser with a cracked mirror, a wooden chair piled with medical supplies. A makeshift hospital room, hastily assembled with whatever was available.
And there, in the center of it all, is Cillian.
He lies motionless on the bed, the sheets pulled to his waist, his pale torso bare save for a bandage wrapped around his midsection. His hair—that shock of white-blond that always makes me think of arctic ice—is darker with sweat, plastered to his forehead in damp strands. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow but steady.
He looks...diminished somehow. Smaller than I remember. The whipcord strength that usually radiates from him is muted, replaced by a fragility that makes my chest ache. This is worse than I expected. Worse than Ares let on.
I push the door open wider, slipping into the room before I can reconsider. The air smells of antiseptic overlaid by the metallic tang of fresh blood.
My gaze falls to Cillian’s bandaged side, where a dark stain is spreading slowly across the white gauze. He’s been bleeding again, recently.
Panic flutters in my throat as I move closer, instinct overriding caution. I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his skin, afraid to touch yet needing to confirm what my eyes are telling me. His skin is pale—too pale—with a grayish undertone that speaks of blood loss and shock.
I press my palm gently against his forehead. Cold. His skin is cold and clammy, not feverish as I expected. Cold means not enough blood circulating. He might even be going into shock.
My hand moves to his wrist, fingers seeking his pulse. It’s there, but thready and rapid—another bad sign.
Carefully, I pull back the blanket, exposing his torso fully. The bandage around his midsection is soaked through in one spot, the white gauze stained a deep crimson. With gentle fingers, I begin unwrapping it, each layer revealing more of the damage beneath.
The wound itself is a jagged line across his side, maybe four inches long, held together by neat black stitches—or what were once neat stitches. Several have torn, the edges of the wound gaping open, blood seeping steadily from the tear.
“Damn it, Cillian,” I mutter, anger momentarily overtaking fear. “What were you doing?”
Training, probably. Pushing himself too hard, too soon, because that’s what he does. What they all do. These men who think their bodies are just tools, weapons to be honed and used regardless of damage.
I look around the room, spotting a first aid kit on the bedside table. The kit is already open, likely because Cillian hadalready been tending to himself. Idiot. I rifle through the meager supplies, but find suture material, antiseptic, gauze, tape. Everything I need to fix this. Everything except the confidence to actually do it.
