Please, God, please don’t let her be dead, he prayed over and over again through the thick haze clouding his thoughts. The corridor he’d walked a million times bobbed and swayed in a sick sort of game that twisted his insides. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut and will everything right, but that only amplified the splotches of gray weaving around the corners of his vision. His heart pounded in a wild and frantic tempo of war drums. Each beat resounded through his very bones. But it didn’t matter. Not the pain. Not the hot waves crawling up his skin. Not the possibility of tearing his stitches. None of it, except finding Juliette. He needed to find her. He needed to make sure she was all right. The rest wasn’t important if he’d lost her.
“Killian!”
Her voice echoed through the hollows of his subconscious, sounding small and far away. He tried to blink, but that only made everything blurrier.
“Juliette…”
Something gave. Maybe it was his legs or his whole body, but everything spun in a cartwheel then the ground vanished from beneath him. There was nothing but a strange floating sensation for several seconds or minutes or hours before he hit the ground with a muffled thud.
“Killian!”
A shadow leapt into the path of the ceiling lights, shielding him from their sharpness. Soft, cold hands cradled his hot cheeks, swept back his damp hair while a broken voice called his name over and over again. Raindrops hit his skin, each one stinging like acid upon contact. He tried to raise a hand or speak, but it hurt to even breathe. Instead, all he could do was close his eyes and give himself over to the numb nothingness on the other side. Eyes the sweet color of caramel were the last things he saw before everything faded to black.
Time was a funny thing when one was running a fever. Everything was a fuzzy, groggy mess between dream and reality. For most of the three days, Killian had no idea which was which. It was all a sickening blur of voices and colors. But the thing they all shared, the singular, solid presence was always Juliette. She seemed to be in every snippet of memory. Her voice was the thing that kept drawing him back to consciousness. At least, what felt like consciousness; it was the one that came equipped with the blinding pain.
By the fourth day, some of that had dulled to an almost bearable hum. The hole still radiated with its own heat and felt like it was vibrating with its own unique brand of agony, but the rest of him was less tender. He knew because someone kept fussing over him, coaxing food and water into him.
It wasn’t until almost a week later that he finally opened his eyes. The room was dark, except for the lamp next to the bed. Beneath it, the alarm clock read three AM. But it was the figure curled up in the chair that caught his attention.
Juliette.
She wasn’t hurt. She was there, squished in an uncomfortable position, but alive. Unless she was a figment of his feverish imagination, something his sick mind had conjured to help ease him into acceptance. Not that there was such a thing. There was no peace or accepting that loss. The damn girl had burrowed herself so deep beneath his skin that he couldn’t even process anything different.
He studied her in the fine whispers of light spilling through the messy knot of hair confined to the top of her head. It glided along the flushed curve of her cheek, the one not resting on her folded arms. She wore white tights under a loose, white top. Her feet were bare, exposing her dainty toes painted a light purple. Her knees were raised to hold her arms and she had her head tilted to one side. It was a wonder how she was able to sleep that way. He’d have already fallen face first to the ground. But it also made him wonder how long she’d been there. Had she really sat there the entire week, waiting for him to wake up? The thought made his chest hurt, a sort of hurt that had nothing to do with being pummeled by six guys or shot.
Damn it, Juliette. What are you doing?
Taking a deep breath, he called her name. Softly at first. Then louder when she didn’t budge right away. She came awake with a start. One leg slipped out from under her and she staggered forward, barely catching herself on the corner of the end table. Her wide eyes jumped around the room before settling on him.
“Killian!” She threw herself out of the chair and perched on the edge of the mattress, next to his hip. Her hands went to his face. One rested on his cheek. The other went to his brow. “How are you? How are you feeling?”
He stared up at her, at the worry crinkling her brows and the fear darkening her eyes. Her face was chalky and drawn and held the resemblance of not enough sleep.
“What are you doing?” he heard himself ask.
The question seemed to confuse her before she realized something. She straightened, taking her hands with her. He felt their loss immediately.
“I couldn’t leave you,” she said quietly. “Not when you’d been beaten and … and shot. I know I’m not allowed to worry about you, but damn it, Killian, you were shot!” She broke off when her voice quivered.
“I meant what are you doing in that chair,” he murmured.
Her head jerked up. The lamplight caught the dampness in her eyes and the sight of her tears hit him like a fist.
“You told me not to stay the night,” she whispered. “It’s not staying the night if I don’t sleep in a bed.”
Her logic was ridiculous, but it was a sharp spear in his gut and he wondered how many different ways she could possibly tear up his insides without lifting a finger.
“Jesus, Juliette.” He tugged down the corner of the sheets. “Come to bed.”
She seemed to shrink back a notch. “Maybe I should get Frank—”
“Bed!” he said louder. “Get in.”
Hesitance still stiffened her shoulders, but she carefully slid over him and climbed into the empty space on his other side. He drew the sheets up over her.
“Come here.”
“But you’re hurt—”
“Damn it, woman!”
She wiggled into his side, the one away from his injuries and carefully snaked an arm across his ribs. Her head nestled against his shoulder.
Killian closed his eyes as her sweet scent washed over him, as her familiar weight and heat settled against his side. Seeing her when he woke up was one thing, but to feel her, to hold her and know she wasn’t his imagination was a reality that shook him to the core.
“I thought something happened to you,” he murmured into the top of her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared.”
“You scared?” she croaked. “I came in and you … you were covered in blood and so white. Then…” Her voice caught. The hand on his chest balled into a trembling fist. “I was so sure…”
Hot, wet tears burned into his skin where her cheek lay. Against his palm, her back shuddered with her silent sobs and his heart broke.
“Juliette…”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying to stop.”
It was a bit of an effort getting both arms around her and not turning on his side. Already the movement was tugging at the stitching in his side, but he ignored it as he crushed her to him.
“Ah, darling lamb.” He kissed the crown of her head. “What am I going to do with you?”
Juliette was gone when Killian woke up again. The room was soaked in bright, warm sunshine that hurt the eyes and the sheets had been drawn securely about his waist, but the place next to him was cool and empty. The sight of it annoyed him far more than it probably should have. She’d been quietly leaving his bed for months while he slept and, while he assured himself it was what she was supposed to do, it still prickled at him whenever he reached for her and his fingers closed in air.
Carefully, he tossed the sheets back and lowered his feet to the soft carpet. His muscles only twanged slightly with the motion, which he took as a good sign. He padded to the washroom and shut the door behind him.