ENFORCER’S REVENGE

CHAPTER FIVE

Abby’s POV

The next few days were suffocating.

Despite my constant insistence that I felt fine, Nick refused to let me leave the bed. Morning after morning, he brought me breakfast with that same calm expression, his soft “Eat, love,” becoming a ritual I grew tired of. By day three, the same white walls were closing in on me. I wasn’t recovering—I was decaying in a bed I didn’t choose.

Today, I decided I’d had enough.

I waited until the usual breakfast hour came and iwent, but Nick didn’t show. Curious. Alarming.

Quietly, I pushed off the covers and stood, my legs a little unsteady but determined. I padded to the door, cracked it open, and peered into the hallway, half-expecting Nick to be standing there with that unreadable smirk—and worse, a gun in hand.

But it was empty.

The silence gave me courage.

I stepped out and tiptoed down the hallway, heart thudding. Still no sign of him. The house was too quiet, eerily so. I made it to the kitchen and reached for a bottle of water, feeling slightly victorious—until a dull thud echoed from upstairs.

I froze.

Then it came again, louder this time.

I was about to run back to the room and pretend I’d never left when I heard it—Nick. A scream. A sound so raw and pained that it shattered my panic and pushed me forward on instinct.

I bolted up the stairs.

The door to his room was slightly ajar, and I burst through without thinking.

The sight stopped me cold.

Bottles. Dozens of them—colorful vials, used syringes, empty IV drips—scattered across the floor like confetti at a disaster. Gauze stained with blood lay discarded near a steel tray. The sterile, medical stench made my throat tighten.

And there—slumped in the far corner of the room—was Nick.

He was shirtless, his torso slick with sweat. His back pressed against the wall, eyes clenched shut, jaw tight with pain. A gauze strip was tied tightly around his left arm, and he looked pale, paler than I’d ever seen him.

“Nick?” I whispered, taking slow, cautious steps toward him.

No answer.

I bent down beside him, lowering myself to his level and reached for his face. My fingers trembled as they brushed his skin—he flinched at the contact, his eyes snapping open. But when he saw it was me, the tension melted slightly.

“A-Are you okay?” I asked gently.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at me. His pupils were dilated, his breathing shallow.

I tried to pull my hand back, but he caught it, holding it against his cheek. I felt the tremor that ran through his body as clear as if it were mine.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like this, love,” he murmured.

And then, suddenly, I was in his arms. He pulled me close, and though my muscles tensed at first, something in the way he clung to me—the desperation of it—made me stay. His head dropped into the curve of my neck.

“Are you… sick?” I whispered.

He let out a bitter chuckle, the kind that doesn’t carry humor. “Sweetheart, sick is an understatement… I—I—” His words cut off.

Then I felt it—warm tears trailing down my neck.

My heart clenched.

Gone was the silent sniper. Gone was the man with steel eyes and deadly precision. In his place was someone crumbling. Vulnerable. Human.

I cupped his face and gently pulled him back, brushing the tears away with my thumb. “Come on,” I said softly. “Let’s get you to bed.”

With slow effort, I helped him to his feet and guided him to the bed. He collapsed into it, his body exhausted from the fight it had clearly lost.

“Do you need anything? Water? Food?”

He shook his head slowly, eyes barely open. “I just need to rest.”

I nodded and turned toward the window. Rain pattered against the glass—of course it was raining. This house lived in storms.

When I looked back, Nick was asleep.

I exhaled and stood quietly, taking in the mess of his room. Whatever he was going through, it was more than just pain. Something darker. Something deeper.

I retrieved garbage bags from the kitchen and got to work.

I cleared the needles, the glass vials, the bloodied gauze, and the scattered containers. I even removed the makeshift drip and the strip of gauze tied to his arm. There was no time to be squeamish. Only time to help.

When I was done, the room looked less like a warzone and more like a place someone could heal in.

I went back to the kitchen and decided he needed something warm. Something familiar.

To my relief, there were still baking supplies on hand. I set to work mixing, whisking, pouring. I chose a blueberry cake. It reminded me of the bakery. Of normalcy.

The scent filled the house, soft and sweet.

As the cake baked, I leaned on the counter, watching the oven. My thoughts twisted in spirals.

Was Nick dying?

Was he a drug addict?

Or was there something else—a secret wrapped in syringes and pain?

The timer dinged. I took the cake out to cool, cut a warm slice, poured a glass of juice, and placed them carefully on a tray.

Then I walked upstairs again.

His piercing gaze locked onto me the moment I stepped through the door.

“Um… I baked you something,” I said, holding up the tray.

He smiled, the edges of it sleepy but real. “You’re incredible,” he said, taking the tray from me with both hands.

I stood there awkwardly, waiting.

He took a bite, and his eyes fluttered closed. “This is delicious.”

I relaxed. “I figured you might want something other than pain for dessert.”

He gave a soft laugh. “I know you have questions. And you deserve answers. But please… just be patient with me, love. I’ll explain everything. In time.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll give you that.”

“I mean it,” he said, more serious now. “You deserve the truth.”

“Then rest,” I told him gently. “I’ll leave you to your cake.”

I left the room and returned to the kitchen, the scent of blueberries still lingering in the air.

Today, I saw a different side of Nick.

Behind the assassin’s eyes, behind the kill lists and locked doors… was a man crying for help.

And even if it meant pausing my escape, even if it made no sense—something inside me whispered that I needed to be the one to answer that cry.

--

I checked on Nick a little while later, quietly pushing open the door to find him fast asleep. His breathing was steady, but the way his brows furrowed and his fingers twitched hinted at an unrest that sleep couldn’t soothe.

Carefully, I picked up the tray of half-eaten cake and lukewarm juice from his nightstand and made my way downstairs to the kitchen. I rinsed the dishes and set them aside, trying not to overthink everything I’d learned over the past few days.

But something inside me urged me back.

I climbed the stairs again, unable to shake the weight pressing on my chest. I re-entered his room softly, half-expecting him to stir. He didn’t.

He looked peaceful, but I knew better. That peace was borrowed—fragile.

I crossed to his side and gently tucked the blanket higher over him, brushing away damp strands of hair from his forehead. The rain tapped against the windows, filling the room with a calming rhythm.

I turned to switch off the bedside lamp when something flickered in the corner of my eye.

I turned back—and froze.

Something beneath Nick’s skin began to glow.

Faint at first, like veins laced with liquid light—purple, shifting subtly to green, glowing then fading, then glowing again. My breath caught as the glow brightened, pulsing, spreading across his chest, down his arms. He started to whimper in his sleep, his entire body tensing as if in pain. His legs twitched. A low groan escaped his throat.

The light beneath his skin was no longer faint—it was radiant, like a storm trapped inside his body. The glow spilled across his chest and neck in strange patterns. His brows tightened, mouth trembling. I could see the agony stretching across his features.

My heart clenched.

Whatever was happening to him—it was real. And it was hurting him.

Instinct moved me before logic. I reached forward and grasped his hand.

The moment our skin touched, it was like flipping a switch.

The light under his skin flickered violently… and then dimmed.

Not gradually. Instantly.

Like a current had been cut.

The pulsing veins of violet and green dulled, faded, and disappeared entirely—leaving only his natural skin tone behind, damp with sweat and glowing faintly from the residual warmth. His groaning stopped. His body relaxed beneath the blankets. His hand, the one I held, stopped trembling.

Nick’s eyes fluttered open.

I snatched my hand back like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t, but the moment I met his gaze, I couldn’t look away. He looked… vulnerable. Confused. Ashamed.

“I-I’m sorry,” I whispered. “You were having a bad dream and your skin—it was glowing. I didn’t know what to do, I just—”

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he interrupted softly, turning his face away like the weight of my presence was too much to bear. “I didn’t want you to see… me.”

His voice cracked at the end.

It broke something in me.

“Is that what you think?” I asked, stepping closer, my heart still hammering. “That I’d be scared of you? After everything?”

He didn’t answer.

I sank to my knees beside his bed. “Nick, are you sick?”

He let out a short, breathless laugh, one that held no humor.

“Sick?” he repeated, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “Sweetheart… ‘sick’ is an understatement.”

There was silence.

He turned his face back to me slowly, his eyes unreadable. “I was changed, Abby. Altered. I don’t know what they put inside me. I don’t know what I am anymore.”

My throat tightened. “They? You mean the people on your list?”

He nodded, jaw clenched so tightly I thought he might shatter his own teeth.

“Not just people,” he said. “Monsters in lab coats. Men in suits with money for blood. They ruined me. Broke me down. Made me into something I never agreed to become. And when it went wrong—when I started glowing like a damn science project—they left me to rot.”

He exhaled sharply.

“And now, I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. No remorse.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

I felt my own body stiffen. “And what about me?” I whispered. “Why am I here? What am I to you? Part of your plan?”

His face shifted—like I’d wounded him without meaning to.

“No,” he said, voice barely above a breath. “You’re… different.”

He looked down at our hands—mine resting inches from his.

“When you’re near me, it stops,” he said. “The pain. The flashes. The thing inside me that wants to tear out of my skin. When you touched me just now… it disappeared.”

I didn’t know what to say. My heart thudded unevenly. It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

But I’d seen the light. I’d seen the pain vanish at my touch.

“Why me?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I need you.”

I stood, slowly.

“You need rest,” I said softly. “I’ll make you something warm.”

His eyes softened. “Abby…”

“Later,” I cut him off gently. “We’ll talk later. Sleep now.”

I left the room quietly, descending the stairs with legs that felt like they weren’t mine.

In the kitchen, the rain was a gentle hum outside the windows. I found a kettle and put water to boil, grabbing tea bags from the shelf. Chamomile. Calming. I wanted to do something, anything to ground myself again. Something simple.

I toasted bread. Sliced some leftover chicken. Stirred soup and added herbs.

When it was done, I poured the tea into a mug and set everything on a tray.

As I turned to go upstairs, I paused by the window. The storm outside was nothing compared to the one now crackling inside me.

Nick… was no longer just a man.

He was something else.

Something altered.

But somehow, impossibly, he thought I was the cure.

I didn’t know if that terrified me… or made me stay.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the most dangerous part.