I couldn’t sleep.
Xavier’s heartbeat was steady under my palm, his breathing even, but my mind wouldn’t shut down. The clock was ticking. Two weeks. Maybe three if we were lucky.
Luck hadn’t exactly been on our side lately.
I shifted. Xavier’s arms tightened around me immediately, even half-asleep, his body knew when I moved.
“Can’t sleep either?”
The whisper left my lips against his neck.
His chest rose and fell. One deliberate breath. Then he pulled back enough to meet my gaze in the darkness.
Moonlight through the window caught his face. Sharp cheekbones. Those green irises that saw too much. The scar bisecting his eyebrow that I’d touched a hundred times while he was unconscious.
Two weeks.
The thought made my chest tighten.
I reached up, cupped his jaw. Stubble scraped my palm. “We should be sleeping. Building up reserves for whatever hell comes next.”
Xavier’s free arm came up. Pressed my palm harder against his face. What his voice couldn’t say showed clear in his expression: I know. But I can’t.
“Yeah. Me neither.”
We stayed like that. Breathing. Existing. The weight of the deadline pressing down until the air felt too thin.
Finally, I sat up. Reached for the small medical kit Hellhound had left on the nightstand. “Let me check your vitals. Establish a baseline.”
Xavier didn’t argue. Shifted to give me better access.
I located his pulse. Counted. Seventy-eight beats per minute. Elevated but not dangerous. Fingertips pressed to his throat, feeling the rhythm there too.
“Pupils.”
The murmur hung between us.
He held still while I angled his face toward the window. Right pupil dilated more than the left, same as before. The concussion or the chip. Maybe both.
“Any headache?”
He nodded. Touched two digits to his temple.
“Scale of one to ten?”
Four digits lifted.
Better than it had been. Or he was lying to keep me from worrying.
I grabbed the notepad from the nightstand. Wrote: Tell me the truth. I need accurate data to help you.
Xavier took the pen. Wrote: Four. Manageable.
His handwriting was surprisingly neat. Precise. Like everything else about him.
Setting the notepad aside, I pressed my palm to his forehead. No fever. Warm skin but not burning.
“Nausea? Dizziness?”
