Page 169 of Cara
“Sophie…”
“How dare you? How dare you force that decision onto me? Livewithoutyou?” I cry as he draws me close. “You don’t get to make that choice anymore!”
I shove his chest, remembering what it felt like to resurfacefrom that water, sprinting through the streets with his child when all I wanted to do was drown.
“Stop,” he whispers. “Stop, baby. I’m sorry. I had to.”
“No,Ihad to.” A whimper escapes my lips. “I’ve been on that plane before. I know what’s on the other side, what life is like without you. I don’t want it. I can’t bear it. Not again… So don’t be angry with me.”
“Angry?” He blinks, startled. “Angry? I’m not angry. I’m amazed. I’m grateful. I’m terrified. I have no clue how I’m still alive, but I know I wouldn’t be without you.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Sophie,fuck, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. I can’t believe what you did.”
Xavier takes my face in his hands. He speaks through clenched teeth, his eyes shut. “I want to scream at you for taking that risk and, at the same time, kiss you,” he does just that, over and over again, “for not letting that be our end.”
I tilt my face into his hand, savoring his warmth.
“I’m alive because of you,” he whispers.
He was supposed to be halfway across the world already with his daughter. His hands are bandaged at the knuckles, the gauze stained bright red. Underneath there, I wonder if he’s even taken the time to heal his own wounds. “You would have done it for me. Youdiddo it for me.”
While fighting pointlessly comes easily to us, especially when love hangs in the balance, what replaces it is so much stronger. Xavier envelops me in his arms, his gentle caresses soothing me, providing comfort that lingers until my trembling subsides, the weight of exhaustion pulling my eyelids shut. As I slowly regain consciousness, I notice the lamps casting a warm glow, revealing Xavier seated at the desk, his hand glistening with alcohol as he pours it carefully onto his palm.
He looks like a man who just fought for his life and nearly lost.
Without his earlier shirt, the remnants of the beatings mark him, a blend of colors bruising his skin. While he was my sole focus when I surfaced, my attention now shifts to this hiding place. Red brick walls surround us. An old flat screen sits in the corner of the room. A brass bed frame complements the backdrop of Manhattan visible through the misty window. Without looking up, sensing that I’ve woken before acknowledging it, Xavier calmly says, “It’s the only place that would accept cash.”
He’s just now threading a needle for stitching, which confirms my earlier suspicions. “Is that for your hands?”
Xavier lifts his arm, revealing an angry gash just above his ribcage. “My side. After I threw you into the water, one of the bastards shot me. It’s just a graze, but it keeps bleeding.”
Seeing him so battered, it hits me hard that it’s nothing short of a miracle we’re still alive. I have no interest in finding out what I look like. He protests when I slip out of the covers, standing to stop me, but I shake my head, bearing through the pain to grab the suture from him.
“I can do this, Sophie. Lay down.”
“Courtney has been teaching me how to stitch since I was eight.”
“Still.”
“Let me heal you,” I insist softly.
Lowering back into his seat, he closes his eyes, cupping the backs of my thighs. “You already have.”
He remains silent as I guide the needle through his skin. The tension in his white-knuckled grip on the desk reveals his internal struggle. Because it’s him, and because it’s necessary, my hands weave the thread with calm precision, finishing the job quickly. While he’s seated, I tend to minor wounds, then notice a tangled clump of hair at the back of his head. Dried blood.
Dominic’s blow—this is where he hit him.
Xavier hasn’t left my bedside, not even to shower, and his body shows it; his eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by a matching redness.
When we were first married, he came home with fresh stitches after intervening in a fight at his club. He couldn’t wet the wound for two days. That level of caution is absent now as we step into the shower, determined to wash away the blood and sweat from the worst day of our lives.
We are both just going through the motions, our thoughts distant, focused on those we love who have fled.
Are they safe?
Did they make it?
Were there complications?
Eventually, we find ourselves silent in each other’s arms, simply savoring the much-needed closeness. He presses his lips to my shoulder, gently brushing against the bruises scattered across my back. “That man was sick for you.”
