"But Luna's concerned. She says trauma bonding can be intense and fast-moving. Two damaged people finding each other in crisis, clinging to each other as a lifeline." He pauses. "It doesn't always end well."
"I'm not clinging to anyone," I say, even though I'm not sure that's true anymore. "And I'm not damaged."
King gives me a look that says he sees right through that bullshit. "Brother, we're all damaged. Every single one of us in this club is carrying ghosts and scars and shit we can't forget. That's why we found each other, because civilians don't understand what it's like to survive things that should have destroyed you."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that Rachel is vulnerable right now. Traumatized, displaced, dealing with both her recent kidnapping and whatever brought her to Blackwater Falls in the first place." King leans against his desk. "And you're injured, exhausted, and clearly invested in her wellbeing in a way you're not used to. That's a volatile combination."
He's not wrong. Everything about this situation is volatile. Rachel with her walls and her pain and her refusal to trust.Me with my ghosts and my guilt and my complete lack of relationship experience. The two of us circling each other like wounded animals, drawn together by shared damage.
"I'm not trying to start something with her," I say, but the words feel hollow even to my own ears.
"Maybe not intentionally. But Shadow, I've known you for a while now. You keep everyone at arm's length, never let anyone close, never show emotion beyond cold efficiency." His blue eyes are sharp. "But tonight, Chaos said you defended Rachel when he called her feisty. Said you snapped at him for being insensitive about her trauma."
Fuck. I did do that.
"She deserved defending."
"I agree. But you defending her? That's new. That's personal." King crosses his arms. "Just be careful, brother. For both your sakes. Trauma bonding can feel real and intense, but it's built on crisis and survival instincts. When things calm down, when she's healed and feeling safe again, those feelings might change."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you look like a man who's starting to care about someone. And caring makes you vulnerable. Makes you want things you've spent years convincing yourself you don't need."
His words hit too close to home. Because he's right. I am starting to care about Rachel. About whether she eats, whether she feels safe, whether the nightmares leave her alone. About the way her eyes flash when she's angry and the way her voice softens when she's being honest.
I'm starting to care, and it fucking terrifies me.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask. "Stop checking on her? Hand her off to someone else?"
"No. She trusts you, and that's valuable. Just... be aware of what's happening. Don't let the intensity of the situation make you confuse protection with something deeper." King's expression softens slightly. "And for fuck's sake, go see Luna about that shoulder. You're bleeding through your shirt and you look like you're about to pass out."
I glance down and he's right again. There's a dark stain spreading across my shirt where the bandage has soaked through.
"Fine. I'll go see her."
"Good. And Shadow?" I pause at the door. "I'm not trying to tell you how to feel or what to do. Just want you to think about it. Really think about whether you're ready for what getting involved with Rachel might mean."
I nod and leave his office, King's words in my head.
Trauma attachment. Two damaged people clinging to each other in crisis. Feelings built on survival instincts that might disappear when things calm down.
Is that what this is? Just adrenaline and shared trauma making me feel things I wouldn't normally feel? Or is it something more? Something real and terrifying and completely outside my experience?
I don't have answers. I don’t know how to untangle what I'm feeling from what I should be feeling.
All I know is that I promised Rachel I'd check on her in the morning.
And I keep my promises.
Even when they scare the shit out of me.
Luna is waiting in the medical room when I get there, her expression somewhere between concerned and exasperated.
"Sit," she orders, pointing to the exam table. "And take your shirt off. Slowly."
I comply, peeling the blood-soaked fabric away from my shoulder. The movement pulls at the stitches and I taste copper as I bite down on the inside of my cheek.
