Her Salvation, His Damnation

#3.

The first grey light of dawn filtered through the curtains. Grace’s eyes snapped open. Beside her or rather, across the room on her bed lay the stranger she had hauled from the street.

She bolted upright, her breath hitching in a throat that felt tight with dread. The stillness of the room was terrifying. Was he even breathing? Had he slipped away in the quiet hours of the night while she succumbed to exhaustion?

She scurried off the couch, her bare feet making no sound on the rug as she hurried to his side. She hovered over him, her eyes darting to the steady rise and fall of his chest. It was shallow, almost stilled, as if his body were trying to hide the very fact of its existence. His skin was pale, but the warmth radiating from him suggested he was still among the living.

She leaned in closer, a hand reaching out instinctively to check the temperature of his brow, when the world suddenly inverted.

A hand, large and calloused, lunged from under the covers with a speed. It clamped around her throat, not enough to crush her windpipe but with a terrifying strength that pinned her in place. Grace let out a strangled yell of surprise, her hands flying up to flatten against his bare, fever-hot chest.

"Who the f@ck are you?"

The voice was a low, dangerous rasp—a sound that seemed to vibrate from the very floorboards. The man’s eyes were open now, dark and piercing, filled with a predatory alertness that suggested he had never truly been asleep.

Grace’s heart hammered against her palms, which were still pressed to the hard, corded muscle of his torso. She hadn't meant to touch him like that, but she was too terrified to pull away.

"I—I saved you," she stammered, her voice trembling as she looked into those eyes. "Yesterday. Please... don't kill me. I was only trying to help."

The man stared at her for a long, agonizing moment, his gaze searching her face for a lie. Finally, he let out a sigh, his fingers loosening their grip on her neck. He didn't release her so much as he dismissed her. Grace scrambled backward, taking several frantic steps until the backs of her knees hit a chair. She rubbed her throat, the skin there prickling with the ghost of his touch.

"Is that a way of thanking a stranger who helped you?" she fired at him, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a spark of indignant rage. "I could have left you in the dirt to die."

The man didn't answer immediately. He met her gaze, and for the first time, Grace truly saw him without the distortion of panic. He was breathtaking, even in this state of ruin. There was a rugged, carved quality to his features that even the pallor of pain couldn't diminish.

He moved slowly, a grunt of exertion escaping his lips as he began to lower his legs from the side of the bed. As the duvet shifted, Grace’s eyes involuntarily dipped. His stomach was perfectly toned, the muscles defined in a perfect athletic pack that spoke of a life of violent physical demand.

He winced, his hand instinctively clutching his side where the bandages were beginning to redden.

Grace looked away quickly, her cheeks blazing with a heat that had nothing to do with the morning sun. "I didn't tell you to help me, did I?" he muttered, his voice still thick with the remnants of unconsciousness.

"You’re right, you didn't," Grace shot back, her voice rising as she regained her steps. "Just like you didn't tell me to take you to the hospital when you were bleeding out on the pavement. I did what I thought was right."

He raked his eyes slowly over her, a look that made her skin flush a deeper shade of crimson. It wasn't a look of gratitude, it was a look of appraisal. His gaze then traveled down to his own body, noting the absence of his clothes and the way the duvet was wrapped precariously around his waist.

"Did you strip me?" he asked, his brow arching in a silent challenge.

Grace felt the heat climb to the tips of her ears. "I didn't look at anything," she insisted, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Your clothes were filthy. They were covered in grease and... and blood. I couldn't leave you like that."

He let out a short, dry sound that might have been a laugh if he weren't in so much pain. "A little lady like you shouldn't go about helping strangers," he said, his voice dropping into a chillingly calm register. "Especially a man my size. You have no idea what you’ve brought into your house."

"I was only trying to make sure no one died in my neighborhood," Grace replied, her chin tilted upward. "I’m not in the habit of letting people perish on my doorstep, regardless of who they are."

He smirked, a knowing expression that didn't reach his eyes and began to stand. Grace turned her head sharply, her heart leaping into her throat as she heard the rustle of the duvet falling from his waist to the floor.

"Your clothes are over there," she said, her eyes squeezed shut as she pointed vaguely toward the armchair where she had folded his laundered things. "On the chair. I... I cleaned them as best I could."

She stood with her back turned, listening to the agonizingly slow sounds of him dressing, the rustle of fabric, the labored breathing, and the occasional muffled curse as he moved his injured torso. Finally, the shuffling stopped. She felt the air change as he came to stand directly in front of her.

His posture was still weak, his shoulders slightly hunched to protect his wound, but he still managed to loom over her.

"Where’s my bike?" he asked.

Grace finally opened her eyes, though she kept her gaze fixed on the bridge of his nose. "Your bike is in ruin," she said softly. "The frame is bent, and the engine... I’m not sure you’ll be able to ride a machine in that condition back to wherever it is you came from. Not to mention you can barely stand."

He sighed, the sound heavy with frustration, and sank back onto the edge of the bed. He looked around the room, his eyes searching the bedside table. "Did you see my phone?"

Grace shook her head. "It wasn't on you when I found you. It must have been lost in the crash."

He swore under his breath, a dark word. "Do you have a phone I can borrow?"

Grace hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. She reached into her pocket and handed him her device. She watched him, fascinated and repelled all at once, as he dialed a number with practiced ease. He didn't wait for a greeting.

"Track this phone," he barked into the receiver, his voice echoing with a command that brooked no argument. "Pick me up. Now."

He handed the phone back to her without a word of thanks. Grace clutched it to her chest, her eyes lingering on the red stain blooming through his shirt.

"Your injury isn't just a scrape," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You were shot. I cleaned it, but it needs a doctor. It needs stitches and antibiotics."

He locked eyes with her then, his gaze so intense. "What are you? A nurse?"

"No," Grace said, trying to maintain her composure. "But anyone with eyes would know what a gunshot wound looks like. I’m not stupid." She paused, the question she had been holding back finally tumbling out. "You... you’re not a thief, are you? I’d hate to think I saved a man just so he could rob me."

The man chuckled, a sound that was devoid of any softness. It was a chilling, hollow noise that made the hair on the back of Grace’s neck stand up. He leaned in closer, his shadow falling over her, his eyes dark with a secret that felt like a death sentence.

"I’m more than a thief darling.” he said.