It’s seeing her like this.
I don’t care about myself, the physical pain, or the psychological issues.
“It hurts,” I say finally, barely a whisper.
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes—those wide, desperate eyes, still clouded with unshed tears. Her brow furrows, instinctively searching for the source of the pain, her hands reaching to touch my chest, my arms, looking for something she can fix.
“Where?” she asks, her voice soft but urgent, her fingers trembling as they hover over me. “Where does it hurt?”
‘‘My heart.’’
Chapter 56:
‘I Love You.’’
Isabella
I’ve spent years learning how to stitch up bodies, how to stop the blood from spilling, how to ease the pain just enough so the soul can hold on a little longer. I’ve seen fractures, bruises, lacerations, and burns. I know how to make them stop, how to dress the wounds, how to offer comfort when the body cries out. But this—this—is different. This is the kind of pain that doesn’t leave a mark on the skin. The kind that doesn’t show up in a scan or a chart.
The softness of the floor beneath me almost swallows me whole as I sit here.
He looks at me, his eyes so vulnerable, so broken. His voice is raw, scraping the air, fragile as glass. ‘‘Can I hug you, please?’’
I break into unlimited pieces.
I glance at the restraints, my throat tight, the tears still spilling down my face. Dr. Hsu’s words echo in my head, distant and hollow:‘‘He is dangerous.’’
His voice breaks through my thoughts again, softer this time, like he’s trying to convince me. ‘‘I’ll be good.’’
An unlimited number of pieces that’ll never be put together again break.
With shaking hands, I slowly unfasten the last straps. The sound of the Velcro tearing echoes in my ears like a gunshot, final and loud. I want to pause, want to hesitate, but I don’t.
When the straps of his wrists are free, he moves like a coiled spring, too fast, too desperate. His hands reach for me, and I’m falling before I can even think, falling into the warmth of his arms despite the wires, the tubes, the needles that are still tethered to his body. He pulls me to him with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs, and I feel him, all of him. The pain, the desperation, the relief, the yearning that’s been buried under everything else.
I press my face into the crook of his neck, my hands gripping the back of him as though I could fuse our bodies together and make this moment last forever. His skin is warm, too warm, and I can feel the rapid pulse of his heartbeat, a frantic rhythm that matches mine.
I hug him back violently, my whole body shaking with it. It’s as though I’m trying to make him real again, trying to fix what’s been broken.
His arms lock around me like the world is ending. One hand presses to the small of my back, the other cradles the back of my head, fingers curling into my hair with the gentlest desperation. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. Like if he holds me tightly enough, he can rewrite everything that’s happened.
I feel the tremble in his muscles, the shake in his breath. He buries his face into the side of my neck and breathes like he’s trying to inhale me, like the scent of my skin might anchor him. And maybe it does. Maybe we’re anchoring each other right now, two broken magnets that only understand one another’s pull.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, running a hand down the back of his neck, fingers brushing the line of a healing scar. “I’ve got you, Aslanov.”
His breath stutters.
But his hold is still too tight. And I feel it, the edge of panic still curling inside him like smoke. The confusion. The questions he’s too afraid to ask.
So I speak, even though it hurts. Even though the words feel like breaking glass in my throat.
“You’re in a clinic,” I say softly, keeping my voice low, soothing. “A private one. Under the radar. Safe. I’ve been working here… for months. With Ada.”
He shifts slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. The edge in his stare dulls, just a little.
“The man you saw earlier,” I continue, brushing his hair gently back from his face, “his name is Ethan or ‘Sawyer’. You don’t know him. But he’s not a threat. You’ll like him when you’re not…” I swallow, careful, “…when you’re feeling steadier.”
His grip on me loosens by degrees. Not gone. Just enough for him to breathe again.
