"You killed him," he says. His voice is flat. Dead. Emotionless in a way that's worse than anger would be. "You killed Marcus."
"I didn't mean to," I try to scream, but my throat is full of ash, full of concrete dust, and the words come out as nothing. Just air. Just silence.
"You killed my brother," he repeats like it's a simple fact. Like he's stating the weather. "And you lied to me about it."
He turns. Just turns his back on me and walks away, his form fading into the rain and shadows like he was never there at all.
"Xavier, wait!" I scream, and now I have a voice, now the sound rips out of me. I'm clawing at the air, trying to reach him, but my feet won't move. I'm rooted to the concrete next to Marcus's body. "Please! I'm sorry! I didn't?—"
"Valentina."
A voice. Real. Close. Cutting through the nightmare like a knife.
"Valentina, wake up."
Hands on my shoulders. Shaking me gently but firmly. Grounding me in reality.
I jolt awake with a gasp that shreds my throat, that feels like I've been screaming for hours. My eyes snap open to the dim moonlight of the bedroom, to familiar shadows instead of that alley. I'm drowning in sweat—my tank top soaked through, my hair plastered to my neck and forehead. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird trying to break free, beating so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my ears, everywhere.
Xavier.
He's on his knees beside my bed, one hand gripping the mattress for support, the other on my shoulder. His face is a mask of strained lines—jaw clenched so tight I can see the musclejumping, eyes tight at the corners, breathing a little too fast and shallow. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead that has nothing to do with the temperature.
He's in pain. Serious pain from getting down here.
"You were screaming," he says, voice rough like gravel. "You were screaming my name."
I'm shaking. Violent, full-body tremors I can't control, can't hide. "I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry."
Then I notice what's missing. My eyes dart around the dim room, searching for?—
"Where's your wheelchair?" Panic spikes through me, cutting through the fog of the nightmare. "Xavier, did you—did you walk here?"
The physical therapist's warnings echo in my head. Fifty percent weight-bearing. Only with the walker. Never alone. Risk of re-injury. Risk of permanent damage.
"Yeah," he grunts, and I can see the way his left leg is trembling from holding his weight, the way his knuckles are white where they grip the mattress.
"Your room is down the hall!" My hands fly to his arms, his shoulders, trying to help support him somehow. "You shouldn't be—the physical therapist said only fifty percent weight-bearing, you need the walker, you could damage?—"
"Forget the physical therapist," he cuts in, one hand leaving the mattress to capture mine. His palm is rough, warm, solid. Real in a way the dream wasn't. But I can feel the tremor running through him, the strain of holding this position. "What's happening? What was the dream?"
Everything. Nothing. The murder I can't confess. The truth that will destroy us.
My throat closes up. The memory of the pipe—my fingers scraping across brick until they found metal, the cold bite of iron in my palm, the weight of it, the vibration on impact—bleeds into the room like it's happening now. Marcus's face superimposes over Xavier's. The sound echoes in my ears. "I can't—" I gasp for air, but my lungs won't work properly. They're paralyzed, frozen. "I can't breathe."
"Hey." His hand snaps to my jaw, fingers firm but gentle, turning my face to his. "Look at me, Val. Right here. Look at me."
I look. But he's blurring, everything's blurring. The room is spinning, tilting, and I can still smell the rain-soaked alley, still feel the brick against my back, still hear the crunch of?—
"Shh." He pulls me forward, the movement making him wince but he doesn't stop. His free hand tangles in the hair at the nape of my neck, slightly damp with sweat, and drags my forehead against his. Our noses almost touching. His breath on my face. "Breathe with me. In through the nose."
He demonstrates, taking a slow, exaggerated breath that I can feel on my skin.
"I can't," I choke out, chest too tight, ribs too constricting.
"You can. Follow me. In."
I force air into my lungs. It stutters, catches halfway, but some oxygen gets through.
