Her Salvation, His Damnation

#2.

The bowl of water on the nightstand had already turned a murky, rust colored red by the time the room fell quiet. Rose stood by the front door, her keys clutched so tightly her knuckles were white. The adrenaline of the haul had faded, replaced by the cold weight of the reality she was leaving behind.

"Be safe, Grace," Rose said, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper as if the man in the other room might be listening through his unconsciousness. "Make sure you call me if anything—anything at all—happens. If he so much as looks at you funny, or if something starts to feel suspect, you call."

Grace managed a small, weary nod, forcing her shoulders to drop from their defensive hunch. "I’ll call, Rose. I promise. I’ve got it from here."

Rose didn’t look convinced. Her gaze flickered toward the bedroom door, her mouth pulling into a thin, worried line before she forced a small, tight smile. With one last lingering look of hesitation, she stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her.

Grace leaned her head against the wood for a moment, letting the silence of the apartment settle over her. When she finally walked back into the bedroom, the stranger seemed even larger than before, his presence dominating the small, feminine space. He was a intrusion of leather and blood against her soft decor.

She sighed, her eyes tracing the grime on his denim trousers. "I still need to check for more," she whispered to the empty room, her voice barely audible. "I can't leave you in these. They’re filthy."

She began to pace the small patch of rug at the foot of the bed. It was a necessity, that’s what she told herself. Leaving him in soiled, blood stained clothes was an invitation for infection. Yet, her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She looked at his face—the sharp, arrogant line of his jaw and the dark lashes resting against his pale skin and quickly looked away.

"Screw it," she murmured, a sudden spark of her characteristic fire returning. "I’m only helping. You don't get to be modest when you're bleeding on my sheets."

Steeling her nerves, Grace moved to the edge of the mattress. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the buckle of his belt. Her cheeks flushed a deep, burning heat, the warmth spreading all the way to the tips of her ears.

She kept her gaze strictly averted, focusing on the task with a desperate shaky sort of discipline. Slowly, she began to drag the fabric down his legs. When the denim finally gave way, her breath hitched, her eyes nearly bulging as she caught sight of the sheer power in his build. She clamped her eyelids shut for a second, her face turning the vivid, scorching red of a ripe tomato, before forcing herself to look only at the skin of his legs, searching for tears or bruises.

Nothing. Aside from the trauma to his chest, his lower body was unmarked.

A rush of relief washed over her, cooling the frantic heat in her face. She worked quickly then, wiping the grit from his skin with a fresh cloth and warm water before pulling the duvet up to his chin, hiding him from view.

She stood back, exhaling a long breath that felt like it had been held for hours. The weight of the night finally crashed down on her. "I need a long as$ sleep for this stress," she muttered, her limbs feeling like lead.

She couldn't bring herself to leave him entirely alone, but she certainly couldn't crawl into the bed. Dragging her feet to the small couch opposite the bed, Grace slumped into the cushions. Her eyes stayed on him for a few more seconds, watching the steady rise of his chest, until the exhaustion pulled her under. Within minutes, she was gone.

***

Tate surged back to consciousness, though the transition felt less like waking and more like being struck. A sharp, localized pain flared in his chest, a heat that stole the air from his lungs. He forced his eyes open, desperate to keep himself awake. The pressure behind his temples was agonizing, a rhythmic thrumming that compelled him to squeeze his eyes shut once more.

He lay still, listening to the cadence of his own breathing, before he attempted to shift his weight. It was a mistake. The moment he tried to move, the agony in his torso flared into a blinding white heat, radiating outward until his vision swam.

He let out a low groan, his fingers twitching against the cold surface under him, he tried to force his body into motion one last time. The effort was too much. The pain surged, overtaxing his frayed nerves and the room tilted violently as he slipped back into the merciful quiet of unconsciousness.