Page 33 of Finding Haven
Based on what I know about Quinn, I’m willing to bet that she wouldn’t have said anything about needing to take a break. She wouldn’t want anyone here to be worried about her, to see her as sick or less capable.After what she overheard earlier and the conversation that followed, I doubt she has taken the time to focus on what her body needs.
“When was the last time you ate?” I ask, my voice stern as my eyes rake over her body to check for any sign of visible injury.
Her shoulder rises with a slight twitch.Did she just try to fucking shrug off my question?She’s clearly too tired to give me a verbal response. Her eyes don’t seem to be able to focus, and her skin is pale and clammy.
My eyes narrow at her dismissal. “Your blood sugar is too low,” I growl.
Chelsea offers to grab her something and rushes off. Hailey, Ace, and Ethan, who must have shown up while I was busy worrying over my conversation with Quinn, gather around us. I feel their presence more than I see it, not daring to tear my attention away from the woman before me. When Chelsea finally returns, she hands me a couple of cookies wrapped in a napkin.
I break off a small piece of one and hold it up to Quinn’s mouth. “Open up,” I say through gritted teeth, doing my best to soften my tone. Her lips part, and I slip the piece of cookie into her mouth, waiting for her to chew and swallow it before repeating the process with another piece.
I know that her phone displays her levels and alerts her when they drop or climb, but I don’t know how to read them properly or understand fully what they mean. After today, I plan on learning. For now, I need to make sure she is safe, get her out of here, and take her somewhere she’ll be more comfortable.
“I’ve got her. She needs some space,” I grunt, looking over my shoulder at the group. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.” They don’t needto know that byhomeI mean mine. I’ll take her back to the apartment she shares with her friend Becca, but only so she can grab the essentials. I don’t plan on letting her out of my sight until I know for sure she’s alright and gets the rest she needs.
When everyone has dispersed and she has eaten a couple of cookies, I help her get to her feet. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I guide her to my car. She shoves my hand away as I move to open the passenger side door. “I can take care of myself,” she snaps.
I fight back the chuckle threatening to burst free at her bratty display. Keeping my touch gentle, I grasp her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tipping her head back and forcing her eyes to meet mine. “But you shouldn’t always have to. Tonight, I’m taking care of you.”
Once she’s safely inside the car and buckled, I slip into the driver’s seat and open the navigation app on my phone. Her address is the first location that pops up, saved from when I took her home the night before. I take a minute to look over the route options, choosing the one that will get us to her apartment quickly while avoiding traffic if possible.
“You don’t have to fuss over me,” she mutters. Her words are still slurred as if she’s fighting back the desire to fall asleep. There’s a little more life in her cheeks now, and her eyes have a hint of the sparkle I’ve come to love that was missing earlier when I rushed to her side.
“I’m taking care of you because I want to, Sugar. Not because I feel like I have to.” My voice is deep and even as I speak. For a few minutes, the only sound that fills the car is the rumble of the engine, shifting gears, and the heavy rock music that I’ve turned down low enough that we can easily talk.
“I hate being treated like I’m less capable or broken because of this stupid disease.” Her voice cracks on the last few words, and I glance her way just in time to catch her wiping away a tear as it rolls down her cheek. “I just want one day where my body does what it’s supposed to. One day where I don’t have to count carbs or wonder if I’m shaky because I’m tired or because my blood sugar is low. One day where I don’t have to wonder if my headache is because I’m dehydrated or because my blood sugar is high.” She sucks in a deep breath, her voice trembling as she mumbles, “One day where I don’t have to do it all.”
My heart lurches in my chest, aching for her. I’ve never put much thought into what it must be like to live with an invisible illness that impacts so many parts of your life. The number of decisions she makes every day just to keep her body functioning sounds fucking exhausting. And after all of that, to have a situation like today still make an appearance at the most inconvenient time has to feel beyond frustrating.
I reach over to take her hand in mine. “You’re not broken, Quinn. You’re managing a silent disease and working your ass off while doing it. You’re a badass,” I tell her, watching the way her cheeks flush a soft pink at my words. “I can’t even imagine the battles you fight every single day. Iwantto make sure that you’re safe and taken care of.”
She turns her head towards me, her lips pressed tightly together as her eyes scan my face.
“What?” I ask. I’d give anything to know what thoughts are running through her mind right now.
“I’m trying to piece together this new version of you with the man I’ve built you up to be in my mind,” she says softly.
“I’ve never claimed to be a good man, Quinn. Just a man who would never hurt you or put you in a position that could bring you harm. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, but I’ve spent the last five years trying to move forward and carve out a new path for myself. The organization that I’m part of gives good people their lives back.” My hands are clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white from my harsh grip. There’s a buzzing sensation building in my stomach and climbing along my spine as I brace myself for her rejection.
“But you kill people,” she whispers. I’m not sure if she wants an answer from me or if she’s merely processing her thoughts out loud. I choose to answer anyway.
“I’ve never killed anyone.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. It’s not a lie, but they still don’t feel true. I’ve neverdirectlykilled anyone, but I’ve helped end plenty of lives through the intel I provide to Legion members. Many targets would still be causing death and wreaking havoc if it weren’t for my ability to track their movements and patterns. That doesn’t mean their deaths don’t still weigh heavily on my soul, but it gives me a way to justify them at the end of the day.
Can I be considered a killer if I’ve never been the one delivering the kill shot?
25
Quinn
KnowingthatZackhasn’tactually taken a life eases a fraction of the unease I’d felt earlier. I wish we weren’t having this conversation while I feel like there’s a layer of fog hanging over my head. But considering I’m currently stuck in a car with him, we might as well get it over with. I’m grateful that he jumped in when he did and forced everyone to give me space. There’s nothing worse than having people panic and crowd my personal space when I’m already feeling out of control.
I didn’t realize how much I would love him stepping in and taking charge. I spend so much time trying to control every possible aspect of my life, and most days, it feels like a never-ending battle. I’ll have a few days where everything is fine, days when my pump site and sensor both work, the alarms aren’t going off, and my carbohydrate ratios are on point. Those days make me feel almost normal, like I can breathe for a few moments and relax. Then, for no logical reason, my body will revolt and send me spiraling into survival mode.
Blood sugars are like a rollercoaster, except I don’t get to choose whether or not I get on the ride. I have to push through the awful feelings and put on a brave face, even when I feel miserable. I’m strong enough to admit that, as much as I want to be independent and prove to the worldI can do it all myself, it would be amazing to have someone else watching out for me.
I’ve always felt like a fairly decent judge of character, and aside from the pieces of conversation I overheard earlier, Zack hasn’t done a single thing to make me feel uncomfortable. I’ve never felt unsafe with him. Not when he was the stranger sitting beside me at the bar or the faceless subscriber on the other end of my phone, and not now as the man who works for some kind of secret organization. I’d like to think that if Zack Mercer had plans to hurt me, he would have executed them by now. Instead, all he’s done is make me feel desirable and cared for.
“We’re here,” he rumbles from beside me, and I realize I’d let my eyes fall shut as my mind drifted.
