Page 15 of Map of Pain
“No. I told you no.”The refusal came automatically, a defensive wall he’d maintained for days.
Luka’s head tilted, considering. He wrote again, slower this time:’Why? What are you afraid of?’
Nick stared at the ceiling, counting water stains while his chest constricted. Minutes stretched between them, silence broken only by the steady beep of monitors.“Pills led to heroin.”The admission emerged barely above a whisper.“Heroin led to Chicago.”
Luka’s eyebrows drew together. He wrote:‘Chicago?’
“Where I met the monster who owned me.”The word ‘owned’ fractured as it left his mouth, jagged with self-loathing.
Luka nodded once, no pity in his gaze—just recognition.
Nick’s fingers twisted in the sheets. The Daylight Society had trained him to channel his pain, to use it as fuel. Accepting help meant weakness. Weakness meant death. But beneath that was the terror of dependence, of surrendering control to another’s hands. Again.
But he was so goddamn tired. The pain in fingers that didn’t exist, the aches and pains that creaked his joints and made long healed scars burn like they were trying to drag him down, to hurt him again so he would finally rest.
He just wanted to rest.
Weakness will get you killed.The pain isn’t real.
This isn’t the same. We’re going to die if we don’t rest.
If we beg, maybe Luka can make the pain go away. Then sleep. Be good for him. Make him happy.
I don’t think he wants to hurt us like that.
It’s a monster,of course it does.
The internal argument felt like being torn apart from the inside. Nick’s resolve cracked under the weight of exhaustion and unrelenting pain.
“I can’t...”Nick gasped, collapsing back against the pillows.“I can’t keep doing this.”
Tears of frustration leaked from the corners of his eyes, tracking hot paths down his temples. His defenses lay in ruins, shattered by the relentless assault of his own damaged nerves.
Luka wrote carefully: 'What do you need right now?’
Nick’s chest heaved with labored breaths. The question was deceptively simple yet impossibly complex.
“I don’t know anymore,”he whispered.“I’m just so tired.”
Chapter seven
Fighting with technology...
Luka
Luka shifted in his chair, the vinyl creaking beneath him. Eight feet away—the precise distance that seemed to keep Nick’s anxiety at bay—the hunter slept fitfully, face contorted even in unconsciousness.
Strong,his beast murmured, attention fixed on Nick’s remaining hand.Callused.Built for weapons.
Three days of observation revealed much about Nick Walsh.Evennow, his shoulders remained tensed, ready to spring into action despite exhaustion. When his shirt rode up during a pain spasm, Luka glimpsed the tapestry of scars across his abdomen—deliberate patterns carved into flesh by someone who considered human skin their canvas.
But Luka found himself drawn to different moments. The flashes of genuine pride when Nick mastered a particularly difficult sign, or the way his entire face transformed when he laughed, years dropping away to reveal someone younger, unbroken.
Three days of inadequate sleep and constant pain were taking their toll. Nick’s color worsened overnight, his breathing shallow, muscles tremblingevenat rest. This was the slow suicide of someone who didn’t believe he deserved comfort.
The room’s scentsbecame overwhelming as Luka’s exhausted senses hyperfocused on every detail. Nick’s fear-sweat mixed with infection and dried blood. Their unwashed state created an unexpected intimacy, scents layering together after days in close quarters.
Ours,the beast purred, responding to the territorial marking.Smells like ours now.
