CHAPTER 14: THE WOUND THAT NEVER CLOSES
732 Words
Adrian woke to pain.
It bloomed slowly, radiating outward from his side, threading through muscle and bone until his breath caught sharply in his chest. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—too white, too clean—and for a terrifying moment, he didn’t remember where he was.
Then Mira’s voice anchored him.
“You’re awake.”
He turned his head. She sat beside the bed, hair pulled back, dark circles beneath her eyes, one hand wrapped tightly around the rail like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.
“You look… angry,” he rasped.
Her laugh broke apart on the way out. “I’m furious.”
“That’s good,” he said faintly. “Means I made it.”
She stood abruptly, leaning over him, her hand braced against the mattress near his shoulder. “You almost didn’t.”
“I told you—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. Then her voice softened, cracked. “Don’t joke about it.”
He reached for her. Weak, clumsy, but she met him halfway, her fingers sliding into his like they’d been searching for the shape of his hand all along.
“How long?” he asked.
“Two days,” she said. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Still here,” he murmured.
She exhaled shakily, leaning forward until her forehead rested against his. He could feel the tremor she’d been holding back now—how close she’d come to losing him.
“I was ready to burn the world down,” she whispered. “If you’d died…”
He swallowed. “You’d have survived.”
“Yes,” she said. “But I wouldn’t have lived.”
The words settled between them, heavy and unguarded.
A nurse interrupted them soon after, and Mira stepped back, reassembling herself with practiced precision. Adrian watched her carefully, seeing what others wouldn’t: the way she never fully relaxed, the way her gaze kept returning to the door.
Even here, danger lingered.
Crowe had disappeared too cleanly.
⸻
They vanished again once Adrian was released.
This time, Mira orchestrated it.
New identities. New documents. A coastal city where the air smelled like salt and secrets drowned easily. They rented a small house with peeling paint and a view of the ocean—a place that felt temporary by design.
Adrian healed slowly.
Mira hovered.
“Stop watching me like I’m going to fall apart,” he said one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“You were shot,” she replied flatly. “Forgive me for noticing.”
He smirked. “You like having me at a disadvantage.”
Her eyes darkened. “You have no idea.”
The tension had been building for days—unspoken, electric. They moved around each other carefully, like touching might trigger something they couldn’t stop.
That night, it did.
He found her on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket, staring out at the water. Wind tugged at her hair, exposing the long line of her throat.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” he said.
She didn’t turn. “I’m thinking about what happens when he comes back.”
“If,” Adrian corrected.
Mira finally looked at him. “He always does.”
He stepped closer. Close enough to feel her warmth. “Then we’ll be ready.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “That’s not what I meant.”
The kiss was slow at first—testing, restrained. Then something broke.
Mira surged forward, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him down into her space. Adrian groaned softly, instinct flaring despite the pain still threading through him.
She tasted like salt and fire.
“Careful,” he murmured against her lips. “I’m still healing.”
She smiled wickedly. “Then let me be gentle.”
She wasn’t.
They didn’t make it inside. The porch light flickered above them as Adrian pressed her back against the wall, his mouth tracing a heated path along her jaw, her neck. Mira gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders.
For a moment—just one—the world narrowed to breath and skin and the desperate reminder that they were alive.
Later, tangled together, Mira rested her head against his chest.
“This doesn’t make us safe,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “But it makes us dangerous.”
- Writer
